Jon

There was still blood on his sword. The day was hot and muggy, the air clinging heavily upon his skin even as the sun rose and their horns blared and Jon watched alongside his uncle the Karstark and Bolton cavalry swoop down from the hills and cut through the enemy at the first light. He'd gotten his first kill, and second, and much more during the battle, losing count fairly quickly into it. Riding south, hearing word from the scouts that the enemy was near, he wondered how that would feel, to inflict pain, to take someone's life with his own hands. He'd felt nothing while he was fighting, because it was battle, and there was too much else to think about, namely keeping his head and avoiding getting run through by the enemy's swords, to ruminate further.

Now it was over, and with the victory came the spoils. While the lords raided the camp behind the battlefield, all the soldiers who weren't highborn greedily devoured the dead and dying, spread from the grassy field all the way to the beach nearby, taking what they would from the remains of the dead, swords, shields, armor, any gold or coin they may have carried. Many of the dead were young men, Jon saw, his own age, or younger, their eyes doomed to be glazed over in fear and terror forevermore. Even the foreign mercenaries, masks covering their faces, strange, plain, lacking any kind of expression, made Jon wonder. They were slaves, they said, bred to obey and kill from practically the womb. Did they fear death? Did it matter to them, Jon asked himself, that they would die here in a strange land, so faraway from their mothers and fathers? Or was it all the same to them, the fields of war, whether east or west?

"Fancy robes on that one o'er there!"

"Move kid, or I swear you'll join him..."

A crowd had gathered around the body of an older man, adorned in the finest golden silks Jon had ever seen, finer than even anything the Lady Cersei ever wore. The dead man wore no armor, a small vein of blood trickled from his mouth, and his smooth robes were spoiled and ripped and bloodied in several dark spots by his chest and abdomen. His eyes were closed, his face appearing rather peaceful, while arms and legs hung outstretched from his body not in agony, Jon thought, but forever in the position of a man in the middle of running, hands gripped upon his spear as if the warrior were still ready and primed for his next kill.

"Leave him for the Greatjon," he heard a voice call from behind, "he's the one who cut him down."

Draping over the man's midsection was a smaller body, and Jon figured they would've assumed him dead if he weren't weeping softly over the dead man.

"That's Prince Oberyn Martell," Jon asked the boy, standing over the body, and recognizing the sigil of the spear and sun upon his robes.

He raised his head, his brown eyes gazing fearfully at Jon, and he gasped at how young the boy looked, close to Myrcella's age, if Jon had to guess. The boy did not say a word in response, but moved his head up and down twice, slowly.

"You knew him?"

"He was my uncle," the boy said bravely.

"Clear the body," Jon ordered, as more and more northerners moved in, whether out of greed, or sheer curiosity. His gaze returned to the boy. "You're a Martell?" A nod in the affirmative. "A Prince too?" Another light nod.

Jon reached out his hand, but the boy drew back in fright.

"Come," he said, trying to sound as innocuous as possible. "Lord Benjen will want to see you." When the boy didn't answer, he continued, a bit more frustrated now. "We won't hurt you, boy. The battle's over. The war's over...I think, or nearly so."

It was a promise Jon was fairly certain of. Other lords like the Greatjon or old Karstark may well take the boy's head after downing a few ales, just for a good laugh, but that wasn't the way Uncle Benjen did things, Jon didn't think. Regardless, the boy was a highborn, and there were...politics involved in that realm that he would be well done to pass along to the Lord of Winterfell.

The boy didn't take his hand, but instead stood up on his own, with a cursory motion first to dust off the dirt and blood from his similarly rich robes. Slowly, a path formed as the crowd parted to let them pass. Satisfied that the boy was following him, Jon saw Robin Flint amongst the crowd, a younger, reasonable man less prone to wildness, whom Benjen had trust to lead their left flank along the beach.

"See to it the Prince's remains are respected, that he gets a proper burial."


Catelyn

"...and for your loyalty and actions in defeating the Targaryen invaders during the siege, we do hereby invite, on behalf of Queen Sansa, First of Her Name, the Lord Tyrion, of House Lannister, to take the fifth and final place in the Her Grace's Regency Council."

His gait was still unsteady, but Jon Arryn had recovered well enough to attend the Small Council meetings, and in time to pay House Lannister the debts owed to them.

"I accept," the small man said rather casually, then looked around the room, an almost mischievous glint in his eye. "That's it? No secret ceremonies involving a prodigious amount of lemoncakes, or something similar of the sort?"

No one laughed, not even the man's uncle, but it was Petyr who quickly stepped in and moved the conversation forward. "I myself have no position upon it, but I can safely assume that I can speak for all upon Her Grace's Regency Council, Lord Tyrion, that your wit and your wisdom will be greatly appreciated in the years to come."

A secretive grin was exchanged between the two clever men, and Jon coughed impatiently, obviously eager to move on to his next item.

"It's abundantly clear that, in lieu of the failure upon Pyke, and all the enemies remaining who continue to threaten Her Grace's domains and peoples, the Small Council needs to be expanded to better consider and manage the wars to come, across all fronts. A new position is hearby added, a Master of War, to oversee the crown's overall strategy in defending the realm. Lord Stannis, with your victory outside this very city, with all that you have done for the Crown since the war against Aerys, it is abundantly obvious there is no better man for the title."

The stern Lord of Storm's End merely grunted his approval and acceptance, and Jon Arryn continued, turning next to the man seated next to Tyrion.

"Lord Kevan, you led the Lannister armies in defending this city and your Queen. Your loyalty to the Crown is undeniable, and Her Grace wishes you to take Lord Stannis's place as the realm's Master of Ships..."

Conspicuously absent from the Queen's meeting was the Queen herself. The war had not been kind to her daughter, and it had been agreed by all that, with the war over, there was little need for Sansa to attend in person all the many Small Council meetings, not for the first years of her Regency anyhow. Cat agreed, and so did Sansa when they told her the news, that the girl would be better off resuming her lessons, and spending her time with her friends, the girls and ladies closer to her own age. Obviously, her lessons would have to be amended, more regarding history and statecraft and the sort, less time spent learning song and dance, though Sansa had insisted on continuing her needlework lessons with Septa Mordane every other day.

"...obviously with the Targaryens defeated," the newest member of their Small Council began, "the matter of the Greyjoy insurgency can no longer be ignored. Balon Greyjoy's defiance is both an insult to the Crown, and a direct threat to the lands of my family, the lands of Lord Hoster and the Queen Dowager's, and the realms of House Stark." He looked to Stannis. "A blockade will be necessary to start things off, to cut off them from both this continent and Essos, though we cannot divert too many ships so as to leave the Sunset Sea undefended and free for Rhaegar to sail forth his soldiers again, bought and paid for. But, with the assistance of Lord Stannis and everyone on this Council, we will bring these pirates to heel."

"There is the matter of Dorne too," Petyr added from the far side of the table, reserved for those who sat on the Small Council but not upon the smaller Regency Council. In addition to Lord Baelish in that outer circle, sat Archmaester Ebrose, and Ser Cortnay Penrose, one of Stannis's most trusted commanders, newly named as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. The Queen Dowager herself fell into a unique category, Catelyn mused, the only one sitting at the table and was part of the Regency Council, but not the Small Council.

"The war would not have happened were it not for Dorne's betrayal," her father said next to her. "King Eddard would not have been defeated and assassinated in Pyke, were it not for Dorne's betrayal."

"We've received no response from Prince Doran since the Battle of King's Landing," Jon added. "As such, I believe the Council ought to state firmly and unequivocally that, until a full surrender to the Iron Throne is received from Prince Doran, the Kingdom of Dorne is hereby declared to be in a state of active and hostile rebellion against the Crown."

"Except war against Dorne is easier said than done," Tyrion replied firmly, his demeanor serious once they began the discussion of matters of state. "The Targaryens could not conquer Dorne with dragons, it was through diplomacy in which the Rhoynar submitted to the Crown. There's the matter of marriage, though such options become more limited with the Queen's betrothal with Viserys Targaryen, although not impossible. With Your Grace's approval, of course," Tyrion looked carefully at Cat before continuing, "an arrangement could be made between the Princess Arya and one of Prince Doran's sons. And while the...matter...with the Princess Arianne Martell I was not aware of until fairly recently, perhaps it may not be entirely impossible to betroth her to the Prince of Dragonstone."

"Bran is a child," Catelyn said very carefully, holding down the urge to snap at the mention of such a distasteful union for her eldest surviving son. Following the Targaryen traditions, they'd named Robb the Prince of Dragonstone in recognition of his position as heir to the Iron Throne. For Bran, while he remained Sansa's heir for now, he would hold his title for the rest of his life, to be passed down to his children, and theirs, so as to create a strong but separate branch of House Stark.

"Perhaps his descendants and Sansa's may break out in a bloody war of succession several generations down the line," Petyr had confided to her in private, agreeing with her father's plans, while Catelyn herself remained uneasy at the idea. "We can't control the future, we can't predict it, all we can do, is do the best we can to ensure peace in our time, while we live ourselves, and for the children we've lived to see with our own eyes. To strive for any more than that, is to challenge the Gods themselves."

"We have Prince Trystane," Stannis grumbled. "That ought to be diplomacy enough. Reward the lords for rebelling, and other lords will start following their example."

"We have Prince Doran's youngest child," Tyrion reminded them. "Maybe he cares for boy, maybe not. But holding Trystane does not threaten the inheritance of House Martell in Dorne."

"The crimes of Dorne against the Crown are heavy," the Archmaester said. "They helped Rhaegar murder our King, lest we forget. A simple surrender and the holding of one hostage ought not absolve this stray kingdom from their sins. I propose that, in addition to bending the knee, in addition to keeping Prince Trystane in the care of Lord Benjen in Winterfell until four years past his majority, we also demand the Prince Doran pay the Crown reparations in the sum of 70,000 dragons."

"It's a steep price," Stannis said, though he spoke in a tone which indicated his agreement with the Archmaester. "But what if Doran refuses to pay? Is it war?"

"We can consider another blockade," Kevan said, "certainly cut them off from Pentos and Braavos, maybe even Tyrosh."

This time it was Cat who objected. "Wouldn't that risk war with the Free Cities?"

She was no naive summer girl, the threat of war was ever present, whether she wanted it or not. But the Gods help her, she did not want to watch her daughter suffer the consequences of another horrible conflict so soon after this one, not at least until she came of age and was a woman grown.

"Your Grace, my lords, we should not delve so much on the Martells."

She thought she saw her father roll his eyes out of the corner of her eye, but Petyr's words caught the attention of Jon Arryn, as was typical. "Pray elaborate further, Lord Baelish."

"It's true, we have the Prince Trystane. We also hold, in King's Landing, Ser Gulian Qorgyle, the heir to Sandstone, Ser Andrey Dalt, the former heir, now Lord of Lemonwood with the death of his brother Deziel in battle. Lord Benjen has captured in the North not just Trystane but also Ser Ryon Allyrion, heir to Godsgrace...the maesters don't expect Lord Daeron Vaith to recover from his wounds...but we can withhold that information for the time being...Dorne may believe themselves independent from the Crown...yet all their future lies within our hands."

"But is it enough for Prince Doran to submit," Hoster asked.

"Maybe," Petyr said, "maybe not. But certainly his nobles will want him to submit, perhaps even the smallfolk...I hear the dashing young Ser...ahem, Lord Andrey is quite popular with his peoples."

"It's a shame the Yronwood boy was able to escape with Connington," Ser Cortnay added angrily.

"Then let us make it to our advantage," Petyr said, his reply as smooth as silk at the new Lord Commander. "House Dayne remained loyal to the Crown in this war. Young Cletus Yronwood...sorry, Lord Cletus, it's hard to keep track of which lords lived and which lords died during the battle...is considered a rebel and a fugitive from the Crown, and so his lands and castles will be given to House Dayne."

Tyrion nodded his agreement. "In name, at the very least. And Yronwood is close enough to the coast where we may even be able to hold it. Whether we should, is to be determined."

"The west of Dorne is more Andal in culture and custom," Jon said, deep in thought, "compared to the lands east of the Vaith River. House Manwoody's ties with the Daynes may be stronger than their ties with Sunspear. The Fowlers could be convinced, if we give them some of the Yronwood holdings..."

"Convinced of what," Tyrion asked. "Rebellion against House Martell?"

Petyr nodded. "This was Prince Doran's war, to make his daughter Rhaegar's Queen. Yet all of Dorne suffered and died for it, all of Dorne sees their futures in doubt, for the sake of one Prince, and one Princess."

"If we could foment war and dissent from within," Tyrion said, slowly coming to Petyr and Jon's understanding of the matter, "I suppose it would be better than making war outright."

"In the meantime," Stannis murmured quietly but firmly, "we put a bounty on the heads of the Prince and his two children. It's unlikely Doran will ever step foot outside of Sunspear or the Water Gardens again, but should Arianne or Quentyn ever think to leave Dorne, or even venture anywhere close to Yronwood or Starfall, we bring them in alive as more hostages for the Crown."

"How old is Beric's squire," Jon asked, thinking to himself, "nine or ten years of age? We declare that if the Prince Doran has not agreed to our terms by the time the boy reaches the age of four and ten, we will declare Lord Edric Dayne the new Prince and Lord Paramount of Dorne."

Though they'd all been considering the possibility since the battle, the transformation of such a radical idea into words certainly brought unease to everyone in the room. How long had it been since a Great House was deposed, Catelyn thought, trying to recall upon her own lessons, and a new one put in its place? There was her own house, raised to paramount status when Aegon the Conqueror swept through the Seven Kingdoms, and the raising of the Tyrells during the same war, and none since, not even during the rebellion against Aerys. How unlikely would it had seemed merely years ago for such a momentous event to take place during her daughter's reign, placing her name in the same breath as the Conqueror himself?

"Obviously, we'd still prefer more pacific terms with the Martells," Tyrion said. "The matter of this past war aside, Dornish customs are more apt to support Her Grace upon the Iron Throne, compared to Andal traditions." He coughed, and looked upon a book he had brought to the meeting. "Speaking of, there is the matter of the Lords of the Reach as well, the conduct of the Tarly's and Tyrells..."


Sansa

"House Hightower sits in Oldtown," the Queen repeated slowly before the maester, "Lord Leyton is the Lord of the Hightower, his son Baelor Hightower his heir. Lord Leyton has ten children, six daughters and four sons. Lord Baelor..."

"Baelor Breakwind," Margaery added with a smile, sitting alongside the same table next to her, and Sansa giggled.

"He farted while he was courting Queen Elia Martell," Bran added, "in front of everyone!"

"Is he an oaf," the Queen whispered conspiratorially, while the maester rolled his eyes impatiently. Certainly Bran was his favorite pupil, Sansa knew, and would've been Maester Cressen's choice for the Throne.

Probably rightfully so, Sansa thought. Certainly Bran knows his houses and sigils much better than his older sister.

"He's actually far more charming than you'd think by that name," Margaery said, before adding with a wink, "he's never farted in front of me, at the very least."

Sansa was thankful for Margaery's presence. The Reach was her family's kingdom, after all, and it seemed the older girl knew something about each and every member of her vassal houses, and many outside the Reach as well. Yet it made Sansa feel all the dumber, as a Royal Princess she'd seen lords and ladies and heirs from all seven kingdoms come and pay obeisance before her father, yet she remembered so few of their names, their sayings and sigils...just the dumb things, like how handsome the young Waymar Royce was, what a shame he took the Black. And Margaery's brother Loras...the mere thought of it made Sansa want to hug Bran in despair, the realization sinking in once again about how she'd have to spend the rest of her life married to that ugly Targaryen boy, rather than the beautiful Knight of Flowers.

"Ahem," Maester Cressen hummed impatiently, and Sansa descended from her clouds.

"The words of House Hightower are...," the Queen bit her lips nervously, "'We Light the World...'"

"We Light the Way," Maester Cressen corrected imperiously.

"Probably the most pretentious words this side of Casterly Rock," Margaery added with a chuckle, and though the Maester looked cross at her remarks, he did not dare comment upon them.

"Have you seen the Hightower," Bran asked, his eyes fascinated by the young lady. He did not await an answer, before continuing. "Is it as tall as the Red Keep? Or taller?"

"Taller," Margaery replied, a childish fascination in her voice. "Taller than even the Wall, where your uncle Benjen lives!"

Bran looked to the maester, who muttered reluctantly, "it is true."

"Some say the Tower was built by creatures from the sea," Margaery continued, her brother now completely captive to the girl's stories now, "half man, half beast..."

"And fins for arms," a raspy voice interrupted their lessons, "and the tail of a mermaid...is that right, Lady Margaery?"

"Lord Baelish," Margaery rose and bowed sweetly, "I did not know you to be a student of such silly stories and lore."

"Your stories aren't silly, Lady Margaery," Bran exclaimed, and uncle Petyr laughed as he hugged her younger brother, and kissed Margaery's hand.

"My lady, my Prince, Maester Cressen." He acknowledged her last. "Your Grace."

"Lord Baelish," Sansa said properly, though they were all friends in the room here, save the maester, she knew it was now time to act not as a child, but as Queen. "Is the Small Council finished for the day yet? Or have they summoned me?"

Do they need me?

It had been a relief, when mother told her that she no longer needed to attend their meetings after the war, yet along with it Sansa felt a deep sense of shame, because she knew it was because she'd acted without their permission, and now they were all disappointed in her. Perhaps they would decide yet to name Bran King in her place. She'd be happy for him, she'd kiss his hand and feel herself set free...yet...deep in her heart Sansa knew that such a rejection would sting a hundred times more than being kicked out of the Council meetings.

I'd know I'm not good enough, rather than have to just worry that I'm not good enough.

Perhaps that would set her free from her betrothal, except...they probably couldn't unseat her from the Throne precisely because of her betrothal to Viserys.

Gods, would they think that I did so just to keep my crown, would they think I'm so evil and greedy? It's not true! I don't care about the throne, they're the ones who made me sit on it anyway!

"The meeting is over," Petyr said, interrupting her thoughts, and Sansa wondered whether she had been blushing. "Your Small Council is remarkably efficient, Your Grace, and agreeable." He looked the rest of the room expectantly. "With Your Grace's permission, I'll brief the Queen on the matters discussed."

Taking the hint, they all departed gracefully, leaving her and uncle Petyr alone in the library.

"Lord Tyrion and Lord Kevan accepted," she asked, when she saw that Petyr was awaiting her prompting to begin.

"They did," Petyr agreed, "surely they would not refuse their Queen's most generous offers."

Sansa nodded, pretending to be deep in thought, though in her mind she struggled to think of a subject she ought to ask upon, so as not to appear so dim. "We're still at war with Dorne and the Greyjoys?"

Petyr nodded sadly. "Sadly, Balon Greyjoy claims your the remains of your father and brother, and will not return them unless the Crown recognizes their independence."

If she could have her way, Sansa knew she'd be tempted to give those infuriating islands what they wanted, who cared about a few barren rocks in the ocean anyway? Were father's and Robb's souls still trapped in that watery hell still, did they cry to her from the next world, begging to return home?

"Will we try another invasion then?"

"In time," Petyr returned gently. "When your father first marched west to Pyke, we had only one enemy, we assumed too easily that the dragon slept in the east. Now, we have enemies to the west, to the east, and to the south, so we must not be rash in action."

"I understand," Sansa lied.

"With Dorne," her Master of Coin, and the man she'd known as a good friend, practically family, all her life continued, "diplomacy may be possible."

"Because of Prince Trystane?" Apparently her uncle Benjen and her cousin Jon had captured an enemy Prince in a great battle far in the north. Sansa would rejoice, except she'd heard asked the maester, who'd replied that Trystane Martell was a boy close to herself in age.

Why do you care about a stranger who fought for the enemy, when so many boys his age or younger died or were hurt badly fighting on your side?

"And other means of pressure," Petyr assured her. "Alas, those are the enemies we know. My own concern, Your Grace, are the shadows...we see them out of the corner of our eye, but we don't know who they are, or what they want."

"The Tarly's?"

The Prince Viserys had confessed that Randyll Tarly had led his banners against her, until they'd reached the Blackwater.

"Lord Randyll claims his allegiance to the Targaryens was a ruse, to lure them into a sense of false assurance, before abandoning them while they were at their weakest."

"Do you believe him?" It seemed dubious to her, but they would not have captured Viserys were it not for the fact that the Lord of Horn Hill had marched his banners to the southern banks of the Blackwater, blocking all the roads south and forcing the Prince to instead try an escape upon a small boat racing towards the Bay.

"If you'll excuse my language...Your Grace...the man's full of...shit." He looked downwards after cursing, seemingly ashamed, before Sansa giggled at her uncle's sudden act of impropriety, and Petyr laughed too along with her, before his voice turned serious again. "The Tarly's are without a doubt traitors, in my mind. But they're too strong to make war upon, and we can't just accuse a man like Randyll Tarly of treason, without significant proof of the matter."

A few minutes listening to Petyr, and she already had a headache. Sansa thanked the gods that she no longer had to attend their meetings, much less actually have to participate and make decisions about such complicated matters when she was older. If only she could have her Regency Council forever...and if only she had been smart enough to heed her Council's advise first before making such a stupid decision to marry that ugly weeping Prince, she would be so much happier. She was happy, spending her days now with Margaery and Jeyne and Bran and even Arya, except when she was reminded about her betrothal, or of all the enemies she still had, who would thrust a knife into her heart even though, they didn't know her, they'd never met her.

"So we have enemies everywhere, but we can't do anything about any of them?"

It was unlike uncle Petyr, to make her feel so much worse about everything, but at least he was honest about it, and told her the plain truth. Not that she begrudged her mother or grandpapa for trying to keep the worst from her, but even with the war won, Sansa could never shake off that sinking feeling in her stomach, that some how death and disaster would fall completely unannounced upon her one sunny day again, like the day the skies and heavens collapsed and she'd learned she'd lost father and Robb.

"Patience, my Queen." Uncle Petyr gestured to the table where she'd just been hard at work studying, and they sat, she in the seat with the dreary book still opened to the page about the Hightowers, and Petyr in the chair Maester Cressen had occupied across from her. With a gentle smile, he resumed. "This realm has been at war since Rhaegar took your aunt Lyanna...every day...even when armies and their lords are not marching back and forth across the land. Even though the war is over, the war continues, because as we speak, our enemies, our allies, they're all thinking, they're all acting, they're all talking and writing each other, whether it be truth or lies...everything that happens now, will determine who marches where, and for what side, in the next war. Do you know how to win a war, Your Grace?"

Obviously she did not. Apparently one offer to sacrifice herself to a horrible marriage wasn't enough to bring peace to the realm. "I don't."

"Lord Tyrion had it right," Petyr continued. "We did not know where Viserys was going to march his armies. Had he marched north against Lord Stannis, and had him surrounded along with Connington and Oberyn Martell...well, with any hope, we'd all be on a ship sailing towards White Harbor right now. But we did win the war, because it was Tyrion Lannister who decided where to fight the battle...not Viserys, or his more seasoned commanders...and Lord Tyrion chose a place that he knew would be ever advantageous to our cause."

Sansa nodded. It all seemed so simple, with Petyr explaining everything, and it gave her heart comfort, that she had such wise men leading the country for her. "So we need to be careful, be patient, and to trick our enemy into doing something foolish, then take advantage of it?"

"And we need to know our enemies," Petyr added, nodding approvingly at her understanding of this much more complex, yet vitally important lesson, "and if we don't know for certain, guess as best we can. We all know what Rhaegar is, a craven, a cripple who could never lead an army of his own again. Little was known of his younger siblings, but one can surmise, of course...a man like Prince Viserys, a young dragon, waiting to be unleashed, impatient to prove himself, his worth, despite lacking the experience...yet because of his blood, holding the command over the heads of the more wiser councilors around him."

Petyr's eyes flicked down to the book below her, and suddenly the Queen saw it in a different light. It wasn't just full of boring names and lists and sigils...but such books held the secrets to knowing her enemies, and winning this endless war! Perhaps without even a battle!

"So Lord Tyrion needs to find out more about Balon Greyjoy and Doran Martell." She stopped, uncle Petyr waiting patiently for the Queen to sort out all the swirling thoughts within her. "And if we can use the knowledge to fool them, if we can make them do what we want them to do, we can defeat them before they can help Rhaegar with another invasion."

Petyr smiled, and raised another eyebrow. "And perhaps, if that happens before you reach your majority, you'd no longer need to marry Viserys Targaryen."

"I...," Sansa began, before averting her eyes from him shyly.

"What is it child?"

Feeling her cheeks flush, she shook her head nervously.

"You can trust me, Sansa. I swear, by the Old Gods and the New, what you tell me in this room...stays in this room."

Biting her lips again, even though mother told her it was a bad habit, that it was uncomely and unbecoming of a Queen, Sansa confessed. "I don't want to marry him."

Mother and grandpapa knew this. So did Arya and Jeyne, and no one else, and no one else could know, Sansa did not need her Regency Council telling her that. But Petyr was practically family, wasn't he? He'd understand. And he did, cupping her hands with his, calming her with his touch.

"It won't be easy, Your Grace. And I can't make any promises, surely you understand that. But what I can do, I will, to help you."

She let out a deep sigh. Could she allow herself to hope, that everything would be alright? With Petyr and her mother and grandpapa on her side, perhaps the Gods could be kind to her, just once.

"Your Grace...you trusted me with a secret..."

"Oh, it's nothing, please Lord Petyr..."

"But I must," Petyr suddenly insisted, his eyes suddenly fearful and apprehensive, resembling the looks of smaller lords who appeared before her in court. "To keep this from my Queen is a terrible burden, a grave sin, I fear."

"To keep what..."

"I failed you, Your Grace. It's the truth, I failed your father, I failed your mother, I failed your brother...I failed the realm. Perhaps, it may be because of me...everything that's happened."

Her heart stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Your Grace, what do you know about your brother's last visit to Dorne?"

Sansa frowned. "He never went back again. And mother and father seemed to...they never said anything more about Dorne...not in front of me, anyway."

Arya had heard there'd been an argument between Robb and the Prince Quentyn, and the two had dueled. It seemed a silly reason to ignite a war, but mother had just told her that the Dornish were a peculiar people, when Sansa had finally gathered the courage to ask her about it two nights before the siege. And it made sense, though Robb had returned to the Keep unwounded, perhaps the Dornish Prince had been hurt worse, maybe that was why he didn't join his younger brother Trystane in the northern invasion.

"He took a ship from Sunspear to Storm's End, didn't he?"

"He did," Sansa said, recalling a happier memory. "The Lady Margaery was there, visiting her cousin! The rains were so bad, the roads were impassible for two fortnights, and Robb and Margaery fell in love!"

And if Petyr and grandpapa can work together, get Viserys married to some other lady out there, maybe the same song could still happen to me!

"Yes, they fell in love," Petyr said, an odd bite to his voice, "and Highgarden announced their betrothal."

The Queen cocked her head, puzzled as to why uncle Petyr did not sound as happy about the news as she'd been when she'd first heard it. Lady Margaery had always been her favorite, and Sansa had hugged her brother so tightly when he'd returned, thankful for bringing the beautiful Rose of Highgarden into their family.

"Was there something...," Sansa started, unsure of what exactly to ask Petyr.

"Very few know this," Petyr whispered, looking carefully around the empty library, "and your mother is quite protective...you must promise me to not tell anyone I told you this."

"I promise," Sansa immediately answered, her heart dying to know this secret, even if it meant...well, awful things she dreaded already but could not yet guess at.

"After Prince Robb's return, Lord Renly and I made a secret visit to Dorne, known to no one but your parents and the Small Council."

"I remember," Sansa exclaimed. "They said...you'd gone to seek the...Iron Bank?"

"Your Grace has a good memory," Petyr said nodding, and continued. "If only our trip could have been so pleasant. Prince Doran was...incandescent with rage, when we arrived. He accused Robb Stark of, well...to put it plainly...seducing his daughter Arianne, before he departed..."

Sansa gasped! How could this be true, that Robb would...despoil...a maiden the same way as Rhaegar? How could that happen, how could he then just fall in love with Margaery so immediately afterwards?

"...a stain upon her honor, Prince Doran screamed at us...I don't know whether it came to blows, but I'd certainly expected Prince Quentyn to have tried to defend his sister's honor."

Her mouth was agape, and Sansa could only stutter, unable to even know how to think in light of all these unbelievable revelations. She remembered the stories, about how Petyr had dueled her uncle Brandon, whom she'd never met, when he'd been barely older than herself. How bad was the scar lining his body from that battle, Sansa wondered. Did Robb do something similar to Quentyn? Surely he was able, Sansa knew, Robb being already one of the finest swordsmen in the realm.

"Don't cast blame upon your brother, Your Grace...he's was a young man, handsome, a brilliant swordsman...yet in many ways he was still a boy." Petyr sighed sadly. "Perhaps had the Lady Margaery not been present at Storm's End..."

"Did...," Sansa was afraid to ask, "...did Robb promise to marry Princess Arianne? And then break that promise so he could marry Margaery?"

To her relief, Petyr shook his head. "No promises were made, Prince Doran told me. But when Robb left, he expected that a man of Robb's honor...a Stark...would confess his sins to his father, after which their betrothal would be immediately arranged."

"Lady Margaery," Sansa whispered, unable to give voice to her darkest thoughts. Was it her fault, that father and Robb died? Did...could she have seduced Robb, knowing his obligations to the Princess Arianne? Or had Robb been the seducer both times, completely taken over by his...manly urges?

Does this make Robb that much better than Rhaeger, except that both Arianne and Margaery had been willing?

"Lady Margaery broke poor Arianne Martell's heart," Petyr continued, "Apparently she'd locked herself in her room for weeks, refusing to open the door, except for her servants to deliver her food and water. Prince Doran then showed us a letter from Rhaegar, offering to make Arianne his Queen. He'd met with his uncle Ser Lewyn in secret, he told us, on an island in the Stepstones. Ser Lewyn swore upon his friend Rhaegar's honor, that he was a changed man since the rebellion, that he'd make a good husband for Arianne, that he hadn't so near as touched another woman since fleeing Westeros."

"So we knew Dorne was going to betray us," Sansa whispered, horrified.

"Sadly, we should have. But I was too confident, as was Lord Renly. We thought we'd worked out an arrangement." Again, Petyr put his hands gently upon her own. "We promised you to Prince Quentyn. We promised to wed your uncle Edmure to Arianne. We promised any daughters they had would wed the firstborn son of Robb and Margaery. We promised gold, we promised upon taking his throne, Robb would pass the title of Prince of Dragonstone to Quentyn, who would pass it to the children you were to bear him."

When we returned to King's Landing, we told your father that Prince Doran had agreed to our deal. The price...neither your parents were happy at all about it, it meant they'd have to give practically their dynasty to the Martells...but it was a necessary price, and your father understood. We also told your father that Prince Doran understood just how significant of a sacrifice this was for House Stark, and in return, he would send his fleet to assist King Eddard in putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Petyr hung his head sadly, barely above his chest, and Sansa resisted the urge to hug him, and comfort the poor man.

"Clearly we were so wrong. And it was our mistake, Renly and mine, that we did not know well enough who our enemies were, and what they intended, what they hid deep within their hearts."

Just what could she say to all this? That the betrayal began within her own family? That uncle Petyr and uncle Renly had failed, that her own father had failed, in trusting Doran Martell's promises...that Robb, her big brother, who'd always protected her, who'd always consoled her when she was sad and hurt, who'd given her all the gossip about the pretty knights and squires roaming the halls of the Keep, most of whom worshiped him, same as Sansa...that it had been Robb who'd failed them all, whose mistakes cost him his life, and father's?

"I'm so sorry dear girl," Petyr said, as she remained silent, "to burden you with all this. I had not expected to..."

"It's good I know this," Sansa interrupted, deciding for both of them. "I'm...I'm glad I do."

"You are the Queen," Petyr agreed. It seemed the secret had knocked the wind out of both of them, as Petyr rose to leave, his face gaunt and exhausted, leaving Sansa shaken and frozen at her seat. But before his feet departed the room, Petyr turned. "As I promised, I will do whatever I can to help you...seek other choices for your future. But if not...," he looked down the hallway then back at her, and shrugged, "...a betrothal began this war. Perhaps it's appropriate it ends the same way."


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Notes and Responses: More emerges about Dorne. But considering the source, I wonder if it's the whole truth, or the truth at all...