Stannis
"We've enemies east. We've enemies west. You're my Small Council, tell me how to deal with the traitors."
"Your Grace," Ser Davos began, "do you trust Robb Stark?"
Stannis paused. In truth, he did respect the young man, from what little he saw of him in King's Landing. And he'd trust the honor of a Stark, but he could not allow himself any weakness before his Small Council, not when it was comprised mostly of those who had once been traitors.
"He bent the knee," he replied simply. "His crimes are forgiven, but not forgotten."
"Let him take care of the Greyjoys then," Davos said, relief in his eyes. If it were up to his Hand, however, he suspected Davos would have him forgive even the enemies beyond the Wall and the Targaryen girl's dragons, when the time came.
"It won't take long for the Starks to retake Winterfell," his brother's spymaster agreed. "I've word Theon Greyjoy may abandon the castle before the Northmen even return. A wise decision, but if not, Robb Stark's got himself a valuable hostage for us to deal with, as we see fit."
He'd kept Varys on not because he trusted him, having bent the knee for yet another King, but because he needed him for now. Pycelle, he'd less need for, which was why the Lannister lackey was rotting in his dungeons.
"If the boy doesn't execute the whimp himself," Stannis muttered.
"Let the Young Wolf shelter his own coast against the Ironborn reapers," Davos continued, "and let Tywin Lannister do the same in turn in the Westerlands. But to mount an extended siege of Pyke, we need more ships in our fleet."
"How do you intend we gather them?"
"Dorne," Davos replied. "Invite Prince Doran or Oberyn to the capital, appoint them Master of Ships."
"As a reward for standing still while the rest of the realm fought each other, traitors and loyal lords alike?"
"Pardon me, Yer Grace," the man they called the Blackfish said, "but you won't have much of a Small Council if you keep only the men who fought with you in the beginning."
As much as he hated to admit it, Brynden Tully, another former traitor, spoke accurately, that he'd had few men to keep counsel were he to seek only the ones who'd stood by him before his brother's...demise. It would trouble him more, the idea of Starks and Lannisters working together, had it not been his own idea to tie the two families in the first place for the sake of his peace. But it did not escape his notice that Tywin Lannister seemed too content with the arrangement.
"Dorne comes to the capital, and we make Balon Greyjoy's second rebellion his last." Stannis flipped through the scrolls. "What of Baelish and the Eyrie?"
"He's married your niece," Varys said, addressing the Blackfish. "They say the young lord Robin worships his new uncle, and has ordered the execution of several lords who voiced opposition to Lord Baelish's new position as Lord Regent."
"It would be foolish to give battle in the Vale," Alester Florent said, his new Master of Laws, one of the few men advising him now who had been loyal to him since before the Stark girl's council, though his own wife's uncle had rallied to Renly first. "Send ravens to the lords, and ask them to denounce the traitor Baelish and bring us his head."
"I'd advise patience, Your Grace," Varys added. "Great houses like the Royces have no wish to remain pariahs of the crown forever, I'm sure, compelled to obey the whims of a madwoman and a whoremonger."
"A foreign whoremonger," Alester spat angrily as he eyed Varys suspiciously. And it was good he'd do so, better that the Spider did not feel too comfortable in his position.
Brynden Tully sighed sadly. "She's my niece, but she's always been too easily swayed by that little weasel. Let me call my nephew's banners in your name, Your Grace. We'll patrol all the roads coming in and out of the Vale. Maybe Lysa can be persuaded to see reason when she realizes just how isolated she is."
"You'd want me to show mercy to your niece," Stannis asked. They'd call him Stannis the Merciful now. Much more tolerance for treason, and they'll call him Stannis the Weak next.
"Take her from the Eyrie," Brynden said reluctantly, clearly pained at the idea at having to treat his own family as enemies, "and she's just one woman. I can put her in with the Silent Sisters."
"It's on your head then, if she further betrays the crown, it's on your name, and Lord Edmure's."
"Consider my men at your call," Roose Bolton added. There was a man whose pardon was temporary, at least. It seemed he had a man from each kingdom in his Small Council, many of them without titles. But it was a practical move, Davos said, a show of unity after the brief war. Again, he wondered whether his Hand's mercy would too easily result in his own demise. "The North fought their rightful king once, but today, we stand with the throne."
You'll stand with a noose around your neck, if what the girl says is true. Though Stannis didn't care that much for the reliability of the Boltons, really, except this was a personal favor to the Warden of the North, and to his sister, who'd helped call the council which crowned him king without need for further battle, who'd convinced her own brother to set aside his crown.
"We'll move what ships we have to take Gulltown now," Davos agreed. "With any luck, the Vale lords will give up on Baelish sooner rather than later."
As one lord after another filed out of the throne room, it remained only Ser Davos, Roose Bolton, and Lady Melisandre, the latter who'd not spoken a word in their first Small Council meeting.
"Your Grace, my apologies for taking more of your time."
"Your son, Ramsay?" Stannis had to admit, the girl seemed right, he could practically smell the ambition off this man. He could even prove useful, had Stannis not already given Robb Stark his word to expose his treachery, that of his and his bastard son's. "Give me Baelish, and I'll consider legitimizing him."
"It could benefit both our houses," Roose added, his cold eyes not reacting positively or negatively to his vague promise.
"How so?"
"If I may speak honestly, Your Grace?"
"Go on."
"I'll venture that you've received ample proposals of marriage across the realm for the Crown Princess Shireen by now."
"You'll insult me in suggesting your bastard, Bolton?" He looked dubiously at Davos Seaworth, who remained expressionless, for the sake of guise.
"I wouldn't dare," Roose protested, making the very same suggestion he was denying. "But there will be many in the realm who would seek to usurp her power. Betroth her to one of the Great Houses, and you may find your dynasty passing to their name within a generation."
"And a weak house like yours will lose Shireen's throne to a Great House within a fortnight."
Again, if Roose took his words as an insult, he did not show it.
"Your Grace, House Bolton will be your rock, for your reign and all your descendants to come. I followed Robb Stark into rebellion because it was my duty, just as you fought for your rightful throne because it was your duty. You were never my enemy, Your Grace, and I'm thankful it never came to battle between our houses."
"I'll have Ser Davos find a suitable hand for your son in marriage, provided he proves his worth in battle," Stannis replied, eager to rid himself of the man's presence.
"You do me more honor that I deserve, Your Grace," Roose said, truthfully for once, before making his leave, sensing the king's patience had come to an end.
"He's impugning Robb Stark's loyalty by elevating his own," Stannis explained, when it was just Davos and Melisandre in the throne room. "The Stark girl's right, there's not a loyal bone in his body."
"He's too smart to commit treason now," Davos remarked, eyeing warily the door from which Roose Bolton just exited. "It may take years before he spots a weakness, or makes a move. He may never do so, if we don't give him an opening."
"I promised Robb Stark I'd flush the treason out of the man," Stannis muttered. "I may regret it, but a promise is a promise." He looked to Melisandre. "What do you think?"
"I'm afraid court politics isn't my area of knowledge, my king," she demurred frustratingly, as Stannis half expected her to.
"Court politics will keep the seven kingdoms strong enough for your lord's war," he rebutted. "So tell me, how do I keep my lords in line and bring my traitors to heel? Roose Bolton? Petyr Baelish? Balon Greyjoy? Tywin Lannister?"
"Tywin Lannister," Davos asked.
"He submitted, because he was weakened by Robb Stark's battles and Joffrey's death. Same as Bolton, give him an opening and he'd take it." He'd expected headaches as king, but feeling them the first time, he wondered whether he could sustain his own sanity against the constant wariness of those who sought to leech upon his power, now that he had his rightful throne.
"My king, it's not lordlings or princes who keep the kingdom's strength for the Great War...only the Lord of Light's will. How can we ask him to look with favor upon us, a realm of heretics and disbelievers?"
He'd been dreading this from her ever since the council, the ask. "I've given you the dungeons for your...ceremonies, haven't I? Don't forget, it was the Stark girl's visions who gave me the throne, not your Lord of Light."
"Where do you think the girl's foresight comes from," Melisandre contested, "if not our Lord? Why do you think He saw fit to kill the usurper, if not for our offering to Him the false idols. But false kings are triflings, Your Grace, compared to what you'll face in the Great War to come, and greater sacrifices must be offered."
"Fine. You can have Baelish and the Greyjoys, should they survive the battle. Burn Pycelle too, it'll do good for the realm to see at least one immediate consequence of treason."
The Red Lady seemed satisfied by his decision, to his relief. Then she spoke again.
"There's power indeed in king's blood, Your Grace. Balon Greyjoy declared himself a king, though a minor one. But the usurper Joffrey declared himself a greater king."
"His claim is false," Stannis muttered, looking at Davos, who seemed as uncomfortable as he in where Melisandre was taking the conversation. "He shares not Robert's blood."
"Yet his rule was true until his death," Melisandre answered with a smile, "and there are others who do share his blood."
"Burn the Lannisters?" It scared him just to give voice to the words. "If Tywin raises his hand against me, I see no reason to refuse you. But he's no fool, he knows his gold and men alone can't win a war against the dead. If I burn him or his kin as traitors, before they'd make a move against me, I'll have half the kingdoms in rebellion before we reach the Wall."
"All decisions are yours, my king, the wisdom to please or refuse the Lord in your hands."
"Ask the girl," Stannis said. "Ask her what now. How do we defeat the Ironborn, how do we take back the Vale, how do we defeat the dead?"
"Your Grace," Melisandre said, bowing to take her leave, and more than ever, Stannis looked forward to the solace of isolation.
Sansa
"And who was it who knighted Ser Pounce?"
"Not Joffrey," Tommen said, treating the question with utmost seriousness. "He never liked my cats."
"My uncle Robert," Shireen suggested, and the two younger children giggled at the picture of fat Robert bending down to knight a cat.
"Any knight can make another knight, you know," Sansa said, remembering Brienne, remembering how she'd protested when Sansa told her she was going south to face the Dragon Queen, when she ordered her sworn sword to remain in Winterfell, so that she would not burn alongside her. "Maybe your...uncle Jaime?"
A smile grew on Tommen's face. "He likes Ser Pounce, he's told me."
Though Sansa had never seen this softer side of Jaime Lannister, spoken of fondly by Brienne once, and now Tommen, she could not deny its existence. The fact that he sought first to visit his brother in exile spoke well for his character also, though Sansa wondered which Jaime would reveal himself, once things came to a head. Perhaps it was the treacherous man without honor she needed, when the time comes to betray Stannis and Daenerys.
"He'd be a good hedge knight," Shireen said, petting the cat gently. "He'd wander all the kingdoms, delighting the smallfolk with his purring."
"Then after all his good deeds," Tommen said, a sweet smile upon his face, "your father can anoint him one of his Kingsguard."
"Lord Commander Pounce," Shireen replied, giggling again.
It'd been just she and the children for the last few fortnights, Tywin leaving with Jaime west to inspect the defenses of their lands against the Greyjoy fleet, and though she sought their company just as much as she avoided Cersei's and the Boltons, she couldn't help but miss...being important, playing a part, no matter how restful chasing cats and reading children's stories could be on occasion. It wasn't that conversations with Tommen and Shireen were a chore, she genuinely liked the both of them, but the fact was her mind was grown, and she could not help but feel more mother than peer, the need to constantly act her own bodily age wearisome, and the idea that she was to marry one of them in the years to come more uncomfortable by the day.
"I bet even dragons will tremble at his snarl," Sansa said longingly. If only.
"His hiss will be scarier than Balerion the Dread's," Shireen added, "but his kisses always the gentlest and sweetest."
The Crown Princess seemed to adore the tales of the Targaryen dragons and conquerors, just as her sister once had, and Sansa wondered whether, like Arya, Shireen would change her mind once those fearsome creatures, changed from fantasy to truth, arrived in Westeros to threaten her own family and inheritance.
And if we survive Daenerys, she'll hate me, for conspiring with Tywin Lannister, for betraying her, for betraying her father, for stealing her inheritance. Though Sansa had a feeling that Shireen cared much more for her father than the throne, and the rotten, accursed power which came with it.
"Lady Sansa, a word?"
It was the Priestess Melisandre. And while she scared her less than Ramsay or Cersei, Sansa still would avoid her if she could, because who knew when her powers would bestow her the truth, and she'd call out Sansa for being the liar and traitor she was.
"Tommen. Princess."
They walked wordlessly through the gardens towards her chambers, and Sansa could not help but marvel at the foreign woman's gait, her steps just as graceful as any noble lady's in Westeros.
"You miss Winterfell, don't you?"
"I do."
"I hope King's Landing is kinder to you today than it was under the usurper Joffrey."
"King Stannis treats me with honor," Sansa replied. In truth, his court was rather cold, and boring. But boring was a vast improvement upon insanity and cruelty.
"May I confess something to you, Lady Sansa," Melisandre asked after another long pause, as Sansa pondered how pleasanter these walks were with Margaery once upon a time.
"You can," she answered carefully, unsure of where the priestess wished to lead her.
"The flames have shown me little since the King took his rightful throne."
"Yet he depends on what the flames do show you," Sansa grasped. He needs her. And she needs me.
"You saw a battle against the dead," Melisandre answered, sidestepping her comment. "You saw it won, without Stannis. I understand you cannot speak of how it was won, but I ask you now, what must the King do, to follow the same path?"
Sansa bit her lip nervously. She'd had nothing to do in the Great War the last time around, except ensuring the smallfolk fed and sheltered before and after the battle.
"To be honest, milady, I've seen little also since the council." Her mind raced, as Sansa knew she had to give the woman something. "The dragons," she said, recalling how the Wall had fallen in the first place, "they can't be brought north of the Wall."
"Why not," Melisandre said, instantly intrigued.
"It's how the Night King will cross the Wall."
"Yet you say we need the dragons to defeat the dead."
"We do," Sansa replied, understanding how contradictory the idea was. "It's beyond my understanding," she admitted.
"Perhaps it's not up to us to understand," Melisandre answered, appearing to sympathize with her confusion, "only to act on behalf of the Lord's will."
"You must do your part," Sansa said, directing the conversation back to Melisandre. "The king must stand with my brother when he makes peace with the wildlings, and allow them across the Wall. Otherwise, the Night King's army will be near unstoppable."
"The King is a practical man. So long as they bend the knee..."
"They won't," Sansa replied. She understood some of their culture after having worked with them since fleeing the Boltons, but Sansa still did not fully grasp what drove the tribesmen, and how, or even whether, they'd be willing to play the games of the south. "They don't cross the Wall because they want to, they come south because they have to. But they won't sacrifice their freedom, they don't want fields to plow and lands of their own under any lord, they won't raise Stark banners, much less Baratheon, and they won't bend the knee."
"They expect the king to save their entire civilization without offering anything in return," Melisandre asked, and Sansa could understand her skepticism. In a way, the wildlings were similar to her own Northmen...fiercely stubborn, fiercely independent, except a hundred fold more so.
"They expect the King to be a practical man," Sansa replied, echoing the Red Woman's own words. "They expect that were the King disinclined towards charity, to understand that it's to his own benefit that hundreds of thousands of wildlings don't join the Army of the Dead."
The priestess absorbed her words carefully, taking stock of them, and Sansa felt important for the first time since she crowned a king in the last council.
"I appreciate your time, Lady Sansa," Melisandre said, seeming sincere in her gratitude. "You've given me much to contemplate." But she showed no signs of dismissing her.
"I'm afraid there's little more I can say about the Army of the Dead."
"It's not the dead that trouble our King right now," Melisandre suggested. "It's the living. The King worries about his enemies in the realm. And potential enemies, who pose as friends."
This is your weakness, Sansa realized, from the woman's uncertainty. You know your god, you think you know the Great War...but you know little of politics.
"The King ought to remain patient," Sansa replied. "The Greyjoys pose little harm aside from a few raids here and there, and Robb will soon have their prince and heir in his grasp. As for Littlefinger, let him linger, useless on the periphery. That's his worst hell, and the longer he waits, the more likely he'd venture out and make a reckless move."
"You speak of Lord Baelish as if you know the man well," Melisandre offered intriguingly, "far more than a distant friend of your mother's."
"I knew of you, didn't I?"
"You do," she replied, a glint of danger lining the edge of her words. She then smiled at her. "It must pain you, one day dictating the terms of peace to the greatest lords of the realm, the next playing at childrens' games day and night."
There was truth in her words, though Sansa reckoned neither Shireen and Tommen were mere ordinary children by the fact that one of them or both may sit on the Iron Throne one day. Though she did not accompany them merely for practical reasons alone, their company was pleasant enough, if not scintillating for her mind in the way time with Tyrion or Varys or Tywin or even Littlefinger was in her last life.
"I don't expect Stannis to call a girl to his Small Council," Sansa said demurely. "The realm would think him mad."
"Much of the realm thinks him mad already for trusting a priestess from Asshai," Melisandre countered. "The King recognizes talent, and more importantly, he recognizes talents which may be of help to him." A brief pause, another hesitation, before she continued. "The Lannister House, the one you are to marry into...the Tyrells, who conspired treason with the Lannisters...all their houses remain powerful after the King decided upon mercy."
"Don't forget it was the King who pushed me to marrying into the Lannisters," Sansa replied, too hastily, she wondered. Suddenly, she was very much a player in the game again. Be careful what you wish for, stupid girl. "Never trust the Lannisters," she advised honestly. "The king needs to use them, in a way which both he and the Lannisters can benefit."
All her words were honest. Too honest, in fact, but Melisandre seemed not to notice.
"What can the King offer Tywin Lannister," she asked, "that he hasn't offered him already, besides a crown? His Grace has been far more merciful than he ought be, allowing him to retain his life and all his titles."
"The future," Sansa answered truthfully again. "The Princess Shireen enjoys the company of Tommen Lannister. And young Tommen would not pose a threat to her, he lacks the ambition of his grandfather, and his mother, and Tommen will outlive them both by many years." With any hope.
It was a bluff, and not a bluff. It could avoid her union with the Lannisters, allowing her to return home, a free woman. But it also meant she'd no longer have any further use to Tywin Lannister, even if she did help broker the marriage which would return his blood to the crown. Which meant her own freedom could cost the North its freedom.
But Tywin Lannister was far away from her, and it was Stannis and his red priestess she needed to please at the moment. And, good for her or not, good for the North or not, it was the best advice she could give. It would not be her fault if the King's stubborness and his own fear of the legitimacy of Robert's supposed children would likely lead him towards rejecting her advice, given through the Red Woman.
"I'll share him your thoughts," Melisandre answered her, similarly skeptical that Stannis would break her engagement.
"And Cersei. Don't underestimate her, don't forget her, she's every bit Lord Tywin's daughter."
They arrived at the Red Woman's quarters. "My lady, your presence is always enlightening. I look forward to more of your wisdom in the days to come."
So she would play with children, and cats, and fire, all at the same time.
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Notes & responses: Thank you all for continuing to read and review. Regarding Sansa playing God, so to speak, letting Arya and Jon and Bran suffer...as you can tell in this chapter, she doesn't quite understand the Dead and the White Walkers, politics being more her thing. So Sansa resorts more to superstition, thinking that maybe the only way to win the War against the Dead is to have it imitate as much as possible the way it was won the last time.
