Sansa
It is late morning when Sansa sees Tyrion and Davos walking together through the camp, deeply engrossed in conversation. Tyrion looks up and meets her gaze with a smile. Pointing her out to his companion, the two men change course in her direction.
"Ah, my lady wife," Tyrion calls as they approach. "You look radiant, as always." Ignoring her raised brow and Davos' disapproving grunt, he presses a lavish kiss to her knuckles and shoots her a cheeky grin.
"My lady," Davos murmurs respectfully.
"My lords," she greets. "Just the two men I was hoping to see."
"And how might we be of service to you, dear Sansa," Tyrion asks.
"I have been here for the better part of a week now," she begins. "And I've not yet been inside the city walls. I was hoping the two of you would consider escorting me."
"My lady," Davos cautions. "I fear it is no place for the fairer sex."
"My sister is there," Sansa points out. "And there are plenty of women and girls who make it their homes, are there not?"
Davos tilts his head to one side, conceding her point.
"Lady Stark is made of sterner stuff than most," Tyrion murmurs and Sansa smiles at him gratefully. "I must caution you in advance, Sansa," he says in a serious tone. "Our progress has been slow. Kings Landing is nothing like what you might remember."
"I understand," she says. "But I cannot just sit in this tent day after day. I traveled a long way because I wished to be of help."
"The king will not like it." Davos offers his arm to her with a resigned sigh.
"Jon would be happiest if Arya, Bran and I were all tucked safely away in the North behind Winterfell's walls." She waves a dismissive hand through the air before laying it into the crook of his arm. "It's good that I am here to irritate and disobey him on occasion," she comments with dry humor. "Otherwise, I fear he may become too accustomed to everyone about him bowing and scraping and rushing to do his bidding." A dimple flashes in her cheek as she grins impishly at the chuckling men.
Brienne falls into place at her lady's back and the foursome make their way forward. Sansa had thought the damage to the city walls was fully evident even from the Northern camp, but as they draw nearer she realizes that even that short distance had dulled the truth and she braces herself for what she might see hidden behind the remains of the outer walls.
A soft gasp escapes her and she stumbles to a halt as they enter the city.
"I thought you said you had made progress," she whispers. In every direction she sees only destruction. The scorched, crumbling remains of buildings are heaped everywhere in the streets and a city that had once been a riot of noise is now eerily quiet.
"We have, my lady." Davos scrapes his free hand over his mouth. "You cannot imagine what it was like in those early days."
"In the beginning, we spent weeks doing little more than searching for the injured and removing bodies," Tyrion remembers grimly. "And in the weeks and months since, we have been working to remove the rubble." They begin to move forward again. "I fear it may take as much as a year or longer before we can even begin to contemplate rebuilding."
Sansa's gaze wanders over the decimated streets as they continue through the city. She thinks of Winterfell and the damage done to it during the battle against the army of the dead and sees it is nothing compared to the scale of the destruction of this pitiable place.
"How does anyone live here?" she wonders aloud.
"There are some who were able to gather what few possessions they had and who left for other cities in the realm," Tyrion comments. "But the sad fact is that the surviving population is perhaps half or less than half of what it once was."
She gapes at him, her mind sluggish to comprehend the magnitude of her former husband's words.
"Come," he says kindly. "Let us show you some of what we have accomplished."
They move deeper into the city and she can see the crumbling remains of the Red Keep soaring high above on its hill. She shudders and averts her eyes from the place that had been host to her pain and torment.
"Surprisingly, the section of the city just to the north of the Red Keep came away fairly unscathed," Tyrion comments. "And so we made the decision to begin clearing the area nearest it first so that when it comes time to rebuild, we can do so from the most populated part of the city outward."
They round a corner and Sansa finally sees evidence of progress. Here there is life and noise and movement. Everywhere she looks, she sees teams of men working to remove the mountains of debris that litter the streets. Northern soldiers and the Unsullied work side-by-side and joining them are what appear to be groups of men and boys from among the city's survivors. She voices her surprise and pleasure to see the citizenry working alongside the king's men.
"There was some friction early on," Davos admits. "Scattered resistance among the people of Kings Landing to what they saw as an invading army swarming their streets, even if it was being done in the name of help."
"Resistance of what manner?" Brienne asks.
"Oh, skirmishes between some of the small folk and the soldiers. Jon and Grey Worm were kept quite busy in those early days convincing their men to stand down and moderate their response in the face of jeering crowds armed with rocks."
"Moderate their response in what way?" Sansa wonders.
"To suppress their instinct to kill the perpetrators and instead to disarm them and hold them in custody until His Grace or Grey Worm could arrive to adjudicate the matter."
"And then?"
"And then they were given the option to return to their homes if they pledged not to disturb the peace again or to be removed from the city and sent North to the Wall."
"To the Wall!" Brienne exclaims. "There's still a Night's Watch?"
"The world will always need a home for bastards and broken men," Tyrion responds simply
"And that was the end of it?" Sansa asks. "Were any of them sent to the Wall?"
"One," Davos replies.
"Only one?" Sansa prods. "What was this man's offense?"
Both men try to shrug it off as a matter of little consequence and Sansa comes to an abrupt halt.
"The deliberate vagueness of your responses leads me to believe it was a matter of greater importance than you wish to say." She plants her hands on her hips and waits with an exaggerated show of patience for one of them to speak.
"There was one particular incident," Tyrion begins.
"A former captain in Cersei's army," Davos says. "He was one of the first to volunteer to join our work crews and Jon took him on his team. He worked alongside them for a couple of days, integrating himself into the team and then one day, while they were all taking a few minutes to eat and catch their breath, he attacked."
"Jon," she says urgently. "He attacked Jon?"
"Yes." Tyrion nods and then raises his hands to ward off her next outburst. "Luckily, Jon saw the sun glint off the dagger's blade. He was able to get an arm up to block it and the others were on the man before he could make a second attempt."
"Was Jon hurt?"
"A grazing wound across the bicep." Davos hastens to say. "We cleaned and wrapped it then and there and Jon was back to work right away."
Sansa presses a hand over her heart and begins walking again and as they move through the streets, she sees Jon working alongside Grey Worm. "He should take more care," she says. "Now that he is king, he needs to prioritize his safety." She shoots both men an incredulous look. "You both know that."
"Aye," Davos says. "We do. But making Jon agree to it is quite another matter."
"If you have some suggestion as to how to convince him to sit upon a throne and rule from a safe distance, we would be happy to hear what you have to say."
She huffs out a frustrated breath and knows they are right. Jon is not going to distance himself from his people nor is he going to march through the streets surrounded by a kingsguard. She knows he tolerates Arya's hovering, protective presence only because he is overjoyed to be reunited with her after the many years of their separation.
They begin walking again and are close to Jon's party, when a horn sounds signaling a break. Some men collapse to the ground with relieved groans while others begin to form a somewhat orderly line in the street.
"What are they doing?" Sansa asks, shading her eyes with one hand.
Tyrion gestures toward a makeshift outdoor kitchen. "The crown provides a midday meal to all who assist with the cleanup effort."
Sansa nods in appreciation of the gesture. The promise of a guaranteed hot meal each day provides ample incentive for the citizens of Kings Landing to work alongside Jon's men and the Unsullied. She knows that working in close company helps to break down the mistrust between the different factions. And she knows that sharing meals breeds familiarity among them. It's a smart decision and she sends Tyrion an approving look.
Jon stands in the middle of the street, bowl in hand while conversing with anyone brave enough to approach him and Sansa lets out a quiet laugh.
"What amuses you, Lady Sansa?" Davos asks
"Jon," she says. "He's always been so solitary by nature, but since my arrival I find that he is constantly surrounded by others."
"He favors his mother's family in looks," Tyrion says softly. "And, of course, there is no one who had a greater influence on molding Jon Snow into the man he is than Ned Stark. But now that I know to look for it, I see a great deal of Rhaegar in him. As do many of the people of Kings Landing."
"Yet Rhaegar was a Targaryen. After all that has happened," she murmurs, gesturing toward the massive scale of destruction surrounding them, "how is it the people are so willing to accept another as their ruler?"
"They are weary, my lady," Davos says. "They want peace. They want stability." He jerks his chin toward Jon. "They see him here, day after day from sunrise to sunset – filthy with sweat and dirt, hands bloodied from hauling away rocks – and they have come to believe after so many months of watching him that he is not playing a false game to win their allegiance."
"The people had little respect for Robert Baratheon," Tyrion points out. "They hated and feared Joffrey and my sister. Without even trying, Jon wins by mere comparison to the last ruling family.
"Growing up, I had occasion to meet Rhaegar from time-to-time. Cersei fancied him and hoped to marry him. And, of course, Jaime was a member of the kingsguard." He tips his head back to gaze up at his former wife. "Rhaegar was a brooding, melancholy sort, yet people were drawn to him." He looks toward Jon who has settled comfortably among his men to finish his meal. "It would appear his son has the same quality."
Arya sees them as they advance and raises a hand in greeting.
"Out for a stroll?" she asks as Sansa draws near.
"I wanted to see it for myself."
"And now that you have?"
Sansa draws in a shaky breath. "I thought I had some idea of what it would be like," she says. "But this?" She looks around. "I hate this place, Arya, but I would not wish this on anyone." She stares towards the Red Keep and knows that she's not being entirely truthful, for she hopes that Cersei was filled with terror at the sight of a dragon wheeling in the skies overhead. Pursing her lips, she shakes herself back to the present. "Part of me thinks it would be best to simply relocate everyone who remains and leave this miserable place to rot."
"I've considered it."
Sansa spins at the sound of Jon's voice as he approaches from behind.
"But it's their home," he continues. "As Winterfell is ours."
She inclines her head to one side, acknowledging the truth of his words.
"I had to come," she tells him. "I had to see it."
He nods, his smile quiet and understanding. "Have a care where you travel," he cautions. "Do not venture far from the areas where work is ongoing. Many of the streets are perilous. There are buildings that are a threat to topple at any time."
"Perhaps you would consider stepping away from your duties for a bit to play escort?" she asks and at his nod of assent, she turns to Tyrion and Davos.
"Gentlemen," she smiles. "I thank you for your company and leave you to return to the work I disrupted."
"Brienne." Sansa looks toward her sworn shield. "You have my leave to return to camp should you wish. I believe I am in safe company. His Grace or Arya will accompany me back when the time comes."
"Of course, my lady." Brienne inclines her head respectfully to Sansa and then bows at the waist to Jon.
"Your Grace."
"Good day, Ser Brienne."
The tall blonde takes a step back. "Lord Tyrion, if you could spare a moment of your time," she begins with stiff formality. "You and I have not had the opportunity to speak..." Her words trail away and a spasm of grief briefly replaces her normally stoic expression.
"Of course, Ser Brienne." Tyrion looks up with a sad smile painted on his lips. "Perhaps you would be so good as to accompany me back to camp. We can speak along the way on any subject you wish to discuss."
Sansa watches sadly as the two people who loved and respected Jaime Lannister most in this world walk away and she thinks – as she has every day since her father's execution – of how life is so often cruelest to those who deserve it least.
"Where would you like to go?" Jon interrupts her maudlin thoughts and she turns to him with a small smile.
"To the Red Keep," she tells him. "I cannot heave about heavy stones, nor can I wield a sword as Arya does, but I can give comfort and assistance to the injured and I can understand those whose homes have been lost to them."
"To the Red Keep then." He wraps his hand around hers and drops an arm over Arya's shoulders when she falls into place at his other side, leading them both toward the remains of the once imposing palace. Once inside, Sansa finds the infirmary mostly quiet, empty but for a few men nursing injuries from their labor on the work crews, along with a handful of elderly treating with fever or other illness.
"These rooms were overflowing in the first days," Jon recalls. "Most were badly burned beyond the maesters' abilities and they succumbed to their injuries in the days and weeks that followed."
Sansa shudders to think of the slow agonizing deaths those poor souls had endured and she is relieved when Jon and Arya lead her down a corridor and into a room alive with sound and movement. Children dart about underfoot as women work to clear long trestle tables holding the remains of a midday meal. Through another door she sees rows of narrow beds set up with near military precision. A baby cries and is hushed at its mother's breast.
She lifts a sticky-fingered tot onto her hip and moves through the rooms, talking softly to the women, drawing them into conversation, asking as to their comfort and what the crown can do to improve their lives. She has the king's ear, she assures them, and will do what she can on their behalf. Brushing a kiss over the child's cheek, she hands him into his mother's waiting arms and turns to see Jon deeply engrossed in conversation with a man whose injured arm is cradled in a sling. She notices Arya is surrounded by a group of young girls whose faces are alight with hero worship and she steps away, venturing down one quiet corridor and then another, soon finding herself near a staircase she knows leads to the throne room. Helpless to resist the impulse, she gathers her skirt in her hands and carefully makes her way up.
A gasp escapes her as she moves into the ruins of what once had been the most majestic of chambers within the Red Keep. The roof is almost entirely gone and the walls bear great, jagged wounds where the stone has seemingly been blasted away.
She moves as if in a trance and finds herself at the foot of the throne where once she had suffered so much pain and humiliation. She can hear the echo of a frightened girl's sobs, can see a boy king's terrifying sneer, his mother's smile a cold and false rictus of sympathy.
They are dead now, she thinks. Joffrey long gone and Cersei buried beneath the rubble of the palace she had once ruled with terrifying disregard for the people of the kingdoms she had purported to serve.
They are gone. Sansa exults in the knowledge. Her enemies are dead and despite all their efforts otherwise – she remains. The throne once coveted by Joffrey and by Cersei is now little more than a thick smear of molten steel beneath her feet and she feels a savage satisfaction swell beneath her breast.
You tried to destroy us, she thinks. We have been beaten and bloodied and too many of those I loved have fallen to your cruel manipulations and to those who aligned themselves with you. Yet House Stark lives on and in our grasp is everything you once craved and more. For our house will be remembered as having protected the living not only from the march of the dead, but from those who threatened to destroy all that was left.
She sighs and takes a step back. She is ready to put behind her this place with its echoes of terror and sorrow. Turning, she sees Jon standing in the shadows, his gaze fixed on the eastern sky visible through the gaping holes in the ceiling above and she knows it is not only her ghosts which haunt this wretched place.
She moves toward him, pressing close so that she can curl both hands around the tightly clenched fist hanging at his side.
"Jon," she breathes.
He turns his head at the sound of her voice calling to him softly and lays his brow against hers.
"There is nothing for us here," she whispers.
So close are their faces, she can feel each warm puff of his breath against her lips; can almost hear the flutter of his lashes when he closes his eyes. And when he draws her closer so that they are pressed together from chest to hip, she lays her head on his shoulder and closes her own eyes, nestling into the warmth and familiarity of his embrace.
"Let us leave this place and its ghosts behind," she murmurs.
He nods, brushing a sweet kiss along the smooth skin of her brow. Unclenching his fist, he tangles his fingers through hers and together they head down the crumbling stairs, turning their backs on the past.
A/N: Apologies.
A bit of writer's block, the intrusions of real life and a certain amount of laziness have all conspired to result in a near two week gap between chapters. I recently attended the Game of Thrones Concert Experience and was motivated to finish and post this chapter.
Thanks to all who are sticking with this story. Life is busy and there are a myriad of ways to spend what little free time we have. Knowing that any of you choose to spend some of yours reading something I've written is intensely gratifying.
