Sansa - Year 300

They looked like clouds in the distance. They were not. They told her the fires were still many leagues away from the capital, with the Blackwater standing safely in between. She feared coming out onto the balcony at night, where she imagined her eyes seeing an eerie glow, staring at the Kingswood far away, yet not so far away. Then she would sleep, and dream of burning, herself, her family, her city and kingdom.

"It'll rain," a gentle voice said next to her. "Then the fire will die, same as all the other ones."

"Will it," the Queen asked solemnly. "Or will new one start, even closer to the capital?"

One thing about Tyrion Lannister, Sansa had come to realize, he was not a man who particularly enjoyed lying to her, same as uncle Petyr. So on such occasions now, when he refused to lie, and instead said nothing, Sansa Stark could assume the worst.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, gnawing nervously against her lower lip. "You would have been a good Hand, I think."

"So would Stannis Baratheon," the dwarf replied impassively. "But your mother wanted Lord Baelish, didn't she?"

"I trust him," she said. "He'll make a good Hand too, I'm sure." It hadn't been just her mother who supported Baelish, because the Queen had agreed with her too. Yet...something felt wrong in her heart.

"I won't lie," the Half Man admitted to her. "The title does hold some sort of...strange appeal to me. My father was King Aerys's Hand, after all...and I have a feeling you'd be a far better mistress than the Mad King was a master."

"If only," she began. It was a foolish thought, but she trusted Lord Tyrion, and knew that he would at least humor politely her foolishness. "When I reach my majority, maybe I'll switch it around. Every year, you and uncl...Lord Baelish, and Lord Stannis, can serve as Hand each. Maybe even Lord Renly too, I do miss him."

She'd hated Renly Baratheon for a little while, when Petyr told her about Ser Loras, and she'd asked Margaery, who'd nodded sadly. Not that she had any right to be jealous after all, betrothed as she was to Prince Viserys, and after the rage, and shame, at her own stupidity for loving a man who'd never love her back, after all her unhappy feelings subsided, she felt only happiness for him, because if anyone deserved the love of such a wonderful man, it was her uncle Renly, politics be damned.

Then how quickly, and thankfully so, did she forget Loras Tyrell, after Lancel Lannister came into her life, and she realized that the greatest of her loves had been standing in front of her all along. Yet, it seemed she was destined to suffer, the Gods snatching her love away from her so quickly.

No, not the Gods. The rotten, rotten Greyjoys. And today, they'll get their due.

They defeated the Greyjoys, yet Lancel had to remain west, and keep to his family's keep, so all she had was still only her quill, and that occasional letter which never failed to make her worst day her best.

"Remember," Tyrion said, "we'll see Septon Polis, Septon Argus, and Septon Mychel at the execution."

"One of them will be named the new High Septon, correct?"

"That's what we'd expect," Tyrion agreed.

"And which one do we want?" They told her the Faith would choose their own, but then present their selection to her, and her Council, for their approval and blessing before making the selection official.

"Polis, or Argus. They're scholars, men of books and letters, their wisdom and piousness undoubted..."

"But Septon Mychel is one of the Sparrows?"

"We don't know that for sure," Tyrion hesitated. "But it is believed that he...sympathizes with them, at the very least."

She'd heard the City Watch was on high alert, with this movement led by the man they called the High Sparrow streaming into King's Landing as the Faith prepared to select their new High Septon, even though they'd assured her that these Sparrows had no say in the selection process, that they'd be barred from even entering the Great Sept. Sansa would have liked to meet this High Sparrow character. Her mother and her Council had tried to shield her from the awful things he said about her, but she'd found out anyway.

He's never met me, she'd protested in her mind, when Petyr led her read the scrolls from the Council meeting. He doesn't know me, if only I can meet him, he can see that I'm as devout as he is, that I love the Gods.

Stop lying to yourself, Sansa.

Gods, would he be able to see through me, and know about Ser Lancel? Does he speak to the Gods himself, and know firsthand how they must see me, a sinful Queen sitting on their Throne? Is all of this, the deaths, the fires, their punishment, their admonishment to me?

"It seems a bad omen from the Gods," Sansa whispered, "Lord Arryn and the High Septon passing so soon after one another."

To her surprise, the small man chuckled.

"What," she asked impatiently.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Tyrion said more seriously. "It's but a symptom of youth, a fleeting blessing, really, to not know that old men...well, they die. It's kind of what old men tend to do, when they do get old."

She ought to know. Hoster Tully had been an old man too, though younger than Jon Arryn, when her grandpapa had died. Yet it had still come as the most brutal shock to her all the same.

Queen and councilor stared at the street below, slowly gathering with people as the day grew later. "You've been drinking, haven't you, Lord Tyrion?"

"A trifling amount." He coughed, then let out a small burp, now that his secret had been revealed. "Executions have never been my thing."

"Balon Greyjoy deserves it," she muttered, thinking about the day they told her about father and Robb. "More than anyone, except Rhaegar."

The Ironborn raids had continued for some time, but they'd finally gotten lucky, ambushing a party near the ruins of Castamere. Lucky indeed, that the party had been led by the so called King of the Seastone Chair himself, Balon Greyjoy, along with his sons Rodrik and Maron. Both had died in the battle, and their father and King wounded seriously, but the maesters had been quite eager to mend him up, so they told her, so he'd survive until his day before the Queen's justice, a day which she'd waited with bated breath for until today.

She heard the cheer of the crowds through the wheelhouse as it carried her royal weight to the Great Sept, though the sound felt subdued compared to prior trips. It must be the fires, Sansa thought. They wouldn't tell her, but she'd overheard Lord Stannis and her mother talking worriedly about a panic breaking out in the city if the rains never did come, and this newest fire in the Kingswood made its way all the to the Blackwater.

But the people were still happy, otherwise, they assured her, and the Queen heard it with her own ears ascending once more the fabled steps of the Sept. Atop stood her two Councils, all present except for her mother, who'd accompanied her by her side. Beaming proudly atop the steps was Lord Kevan Lannister, the unknowing father of the man she loved, and now rewarded with Jon Arryn's position on her Regency Council for his feat in capturing Balon Greyjoy. There were new faces atop the steps as well, the Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, newly appointed to fill in uncle Petyr's seat, now that he'd risen to Hand. Her fellow northerner had brought along his bastard son as well, though she did not see him in the crowd, and figured the Ramsay boy was probably standing somewhere in the back. They were her people, the blood of the First Men, except their eyes did not bring her comfort the way uncle Benjen and his family did, they felt more strange and foreign to her than even the Targaryen Princess, or the other occasional dignitaries paying her tribute now and then in the Throne Room.

The Queen took her place at the center of the royal line, after which they brought the iron bound cage from within the Sept, so that the presence of the Gods inside the great temple could try what they could in cleansing this awful man from his heresies and most heinous sins. Her eyes searched the small prison, bars adorned mockingly with the sigil of the Kraken, which they said had carried this man all the way from his capture near the Sunset Sea, and at first she could even not spot the prisoner.

He was a small, shriveled thing of skin and bones, his skin a dried parched yellow, the stench overwhelming her nostrils before Tyrion's man Sandor dragged him unwillingly out of his cage, and Sansa thought she'd never seen a more haggardly, pitifully looking man, not even after the battle outside her city walls. This thing, who apparently still lived and breathed, did not move once at all of his own accord, except exacting from his frail lungs a hideous cough every few seconds, and she wondered if they'd even given him any food or water on the march to King's Landing.

"Balon Greyjoy," Lord Baelish announced officially, "you are accused of treason, regicide..."

He was the worst of the worst, but did even the worst deserve to suffer as he'd obviously suffered? He did not seem cruel, or evil, he just looked a poor old man, thinner than ever the beggars of Flea Bottom. Had enough justice already been done to him, in her name?

Sansa looked back, and saw Ser Balon. "Water," she whispered, "does anyone have water?"

Her Kingsguards looked around nervously, but soon enough someone brought up a small jug and handed it to her.

"...in the name of Queen Sansa of House Stark, you are sentenced..."

Sneaking her head under the proclamations, she took the small jar of water and bent down by the condemned man, pressing it against his lips. "Would you like some water, Ser," she whispered, aware that Petyr had suddenly stopped speaking, that her entire Council and court, nay, the entire city, were now watching their Queen in a stunned silence, caught completely unawares by her action. The so-called King of the Sunset Sea didn't answer, and she tried to find the pupils of his eyes, hidden behind heavy lids. "Some water, before...the justice is done?"

The man's lips opened slightly, but rather than drink her offering, she heard him cough again, and then felt upon her hands the most awful sensation. At first she'd thought she spilled, but then Sansa realized that the man had actually spit on her, the disgusting, viscous fluid he'd extracted from deep within his throat now dripping down her knuckles and fingers.

"Arrgh," the Queen shrieked in hideous fright, dropping the jug on the ground and backing away in both fright and embarrassment from the condemned man. Instantly, the Clegane man and Ser Courtnay moved in, swearing and kicking at the old man, who took it all with his overbearing silence, save for another horrible cough after they'd finished with him. Then, a burning sensation upon her knees, and Sansa realized she'd tripped and fallen, and now lay sprawled upon the ground, eyes level with Balon Greyjoy across from her, feeling like the worst fool in the world.

What? How...what do I do...

She lay there, frightened and frozen, feeling her eyes welling up, before she felt two tugs upon her arms, and saw her mother and Ser Balon at her side, helping her to her feet, Lord Tyrion trailing them with concern bubbling upon his face.

"What is dead may never die!" The way he'd been coughing, Sansa would not have guessed that the man could still shout as such.

A soft and uneasy murmur grew in the crowd gathered, and her body no longer her own, Sansa heard the sound of sword clashing against stone. A look back, seeing the blood seeping against the feet of the man they called the Hound, and suddenly she could take no more, surrendering her body entirely and letting them carry her back to her wheelhouse even while blood still poured from the neck of the Ironborn traitor, burying her head in her mother's bosom so as to not witness the tens of thousands laughing at the stupidity of this girl who dared to call herself their Queen.

She heard nothing on the ride back to the Keep, her ears still buried in her mother's lap, but Sansa imagined there were no cheers this time. The stench of the dead man lingered through the air of the carriage, one last curse from the man who'd committed so much sacrilege already against her family.


Daenerys

"The North Remembers, my love. Torrhen knelt, and for three hundred years the wolf counts its days, summers pass and warm winds blow, yet our hearts feel ever winter, our pride shaken, our crown broken, our minds closed to reason, much less love."

"You tell me there's no hope," the man who played her brother professed. "Yet as a just prince, hope must be the only cause I hold, the only weapon I wield, for how can I sit on a throne, and look upon my realms, my inheritance, with dismay, or mistrust, with a heart aimed to keeping secrets. And what a secret, my love, our love, our passion, my need, my very being. Aye, love, it binds our world together, between kingdoms, and sigils, and houses, our hearts all beat as one, love its desire, love the air it needs to breathe."

She looked down at her feet, feigning sadness, the dark braids of her wig falling down across her shoulders still a strange sight to see even after so many performances already.

"My love," she said, pressing her hand against Izembaro's chest, a ridiculous sight, Daenerys thought, the man playing her brother older than her brother today, much less nine and ten years before. "You speak of love as if it's a balm, a cure, an antidote to all that could ill the world. Your words are fire and blood, yet my betrothed, only blood can satiate the fire in his heart, lit from what but love. And my brother, his heart has turned to ice..."

"A shame, the shame of my family, to stain our name forever more, my father's crimes against yours." The actor sighed. "Go then, I bother you no more. I have no right, my wife, my beloved son and daughter await me, yet...is it wrong, that my heart desires more? The burden I must bear, to restore this realm, with honor, with justice...yet my greatest fear, to bear it alone."

"Then let it be our burden," Daenerys insisted, placing a kiss upon the older actor's lips, thinking sardonically that this may be the closest she would ever approach towards her family's traditions of incest. "I am not my brother's slave, I am not the North's flower to hide. Let Winterfell fall, let the sky crash against us, and seven kingdoms burned to Old Valyria, yet I am yours, and you are mine..."

Another round of applause, another endless tide of waves and bows, and gold to fill her pockets, yet it was not the mansion she went to after, but the city's harbor, and a small boat docked quietly in the calm waters under the light of a full moon.

"I did not see you in the audience," she said, pressing her naked body against his, her fingers tracing small circles upon his chest on a comfortably warm summer's night.

"I left, just after the...um," Daario Naharis's eyes shifted nervously, "the duel..."

"Oh really," Daenerys asked skeptically. "It was quite a shock, wasn't it? Izembaro decided to change things up a bit, have Robert slay Rhaegar tonight, made for an interesting reaction for the audience."

A strong hand grabbed the back of her head, and pulled her into his lips as his fingers ran desperately through her hair.

"I'm sorry," Daario laughed, after yet another passionate kiss, "I can't watch them put that wig on your head, dress you up like some northern wildling girl..."

"Lyanna Stark was no wildling," Daenerys insisted, before settling her head against his chest, moaning softly as Daario rubbed his fingers up and down the small of her back. "I don't blame you though. It's a pretty bad play, actually..."

"Hmm," Daario muttered. "Awful."

"Yet, the people love it. Even more than The Realm's Delight."

"People are stupid. They like stupid things."

Because it was true love the people liked to see, and there was no love in the last play, not between Rhaenyra with her friends, or foes. And even though this true love between the wolf and dragon found itself snuffed tragically in its cradle, the people still cried for it, so long as the love and the lovers remained true to the end. Yet at least some of the words she recited Daenerys knew to be a lie. She knew her brother, after all, and Rhaegar was not a person to let go willingly anything he believed rightfully his, herself being the only exception.

Be it so unlike the Spider to leave no subtlety in his verses, or whomever he paid to write them. Daenerys had to give it to Izembaro, who'd been the one who'd written their last play, the way they sang and twisted words and truth to the audience. When she won a battle, they cheered her, even though she was as monstrous as Lady Crane's Queen Alicent. When her uncle Daemon died, they mourned him, even though he was just as much of a beast as Prince Aemond, whom he killed so heroically. At least there was nothing lost upon the audience with this one. And Izembaro did not mind, so long as the coin kept on falling into their hands.

"They'll get tired of it soon," Daenerys whispered, feeling the drifts of slumber overcoming her.

"You'll get tired of it before they," her lover replied, knowing her all too well. "You're already tired of it."

She chided at him playfully. "Someone has to earn our coin, you know."

Daario looked away. "There's another war they want me to fight, actually."

"Where," Daenerys replied, concerned. Yet she'd known this day would come, hadn't she? Daario was a killer, a soldier of fortune, after all. He was in Braavos only because they paid him to remain in Braavos, after safeguarding a caravan of gold from Qohor back to its place in the Iron Bank, then happening to stumble into their theater on the last night she'd worn the Crown of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

"Volantis," came the casual reply. "Some rebellion or another in one of their colonies, north along the Rhoyne."

"Are you going to go?"

Do I care that you go?

With one smooth motion, he flipped her on her back, the full weight of his body lying atop her once more. Daenerys shrieked in delight, to make him feel satiated, to make him feel powerful, to make him believe she needed him as much as he needed her, because acting came so easily to her now.

"I've got some time," Daario smirked, thrusting into her now that he'd recovered again. His husky voice whispered into her ear while they made love. "Maybe we could make a stop in the Summer Islands, first."

Maybe she could act for him, just awhile longer.


Tyrion

"Well, that was a disaster."

The Queen had meant well. She always meant well, Tyrion knew, yet her good intentions seem ever determined in cursing the very girl from whence they came from. Sansa had announced her betrothal to the Targaryen princeling out of the purest of intentions as well, yet Tyrion knew well the toll that the unwanted promise had extracted upon the poor girl from the moment she'd uttered the words out loud.

"How is she, Your Grace," Petyr asked the Queen Dowager. They were all concerned for Sansa, none more than the girl's own mother, who'd looked like she aged ten years since the first time Tyrion met her, so shortly after the death of her husband and first born son. He did not envy Catelyn Tully now, having to watch with her own eyes, even as they spoke, the pressures of an Iron Throne cutting slowly and deeply into her eldest daughter's soul.

"Sansa is strong," Queen Catelyn muttered, layers of rings encircling her weary eyes. "Far stronger than any of us could imagine..."

"She will recover," Littlefinger said gently, comforting his old friend. "The realm will recover. After all, despite the...unfortunate happenstance today, we must look back at the events at hand. Balon Greyjoy is dead, the Crown triumphant, the murder of King Eddard and Prince Robb avenged."

"Yet the Iron Island remain as incorrigible as ever," Stannis countered. "They'll crown Euron Greyjoy their next King of Salt or whatever, or the man's son Theon."

"The raids won't stop either," Roose Bolton said, their new Master of Whispers. "I've word from the North that their sails have already been spotted near Flint's Finger."

"Shame we can't end the war with another betrothal," Baelish responded, a sly look upon his face, "unless Queen Sansa may follow in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror, take for herself two consorts."

A stinging look from the Queen Dowager, and Petyr flinched, regretting his remark instantly. Tyrion knew, as did everyone, their history, how the new Hand to the Queen had once loved Sansa's mother. Loved her still, many whispered in the corridors of the Keep, and they all wondered how long the man would keep his respect towards her late husband and King before he'd propose his own hand in marriage to the Queen Dowager. Years ago it would have been a preposterous notion, an upstart like Baelish marrying even a Tully, much less the widow of a King. Yet, the idea of a Hand marrying Queen Catelyn seemed the more realistic, and Tyrion wondered whether the Queen Dowager had thought upon those same lines, when she'd supported Petyr Baelish's appointment as Jon Arryn's successor.

"There is the matter of the other betrothals we are meant to discuss," Tyrion interjected, "those of the Princess Arya and the Prince of Dragonstone. I believe when we last met on the matter, we seemed to be coming closer to a consensus for Prince Bran and Lady Shireen."

First he looked at Stannis, who remained impassive, as if his daughter's name had not been brought up at all, then at an unhappy looking Mace Tyrell, who seemed to still believe that Margaery could marry the young Prince, despite their significant difference in age.

"Bran is twelve," Catelyn said quietly, "the same age as Sansa when she arranged her betrothal." The Queen Dowager addressed the Master of War. "The proposition is agreeable, Lord Stannis, but I'd like to wait some time before any announcement...I'd like at least some of my children to remain...children, for just some time longer."

"As Your Grace wishes," Stannis said agreeably, before turning to the rest of the Council. "As to Princess Arya, I believe we discussed Lancel Lannister, Loras Tyrell, and Edric Dayne of Starfall?"

"Lord Edric is closer to her age," Catelyn said, trying to ignore the flustered stare from Mace, the possibility of his house being twice rejected to a royal marriage coming closer and closer to reality.

And Edric Dayne would be a more appropriate husband to the girl in other ways as well, compared to Ser Loras.

"I've spoken to the Queen herself," Tyrion added, "for what it's worth. She's met the boy Edric once, after the Battle of King's Landing. He's a soldier, and Her Grace believes he will make a good Lord husband to her sister."

"A marriage to the Lord of Starfall is not disagreeable," Baelish semed to agree at first, "especially had we had the need to appoint House Dayne the stewards of Dorne. Yet, House Martell did surrender, and meet all our terms. Prince Doran's eldest son Quentyn remains unattached...perhaps it may be wise to build closer ties with the Martells, rather than reignite this wedge between Doran and the Crown by betrothing the Princess to their rival house in Dorne."

"I...," Tyrion expected the Queen Dowager to explode at first, indignant towards the idea that both her daughters would be marrying into families who'd betrayed and murdered her husband and son. Yet, she stopped herself with admirable composure, and looked sadly downwards, taking several deep breaths before she spoke. "Robb...I'd be lying to myself if I said he didn't play his part in this feud between my family and the Martells. If the burden must be Arya's to mend it...perhaps she may bear it. She's strong, both my daughters are so strong."

"It's worth looking into," Tyrion said, considering the prospects in his own mind, "so long as we may have assurances that the Martells can be trusted going forward."

A hostage in Prince Trystane, he recalled. Perhaps a not so blushing bride in Arya Stark. Stranger things have happened concerning the politics of the Crown, Tyrion knew, yet even he, no great lover of war, wondered how much further they could keep bending to the whims of their enemies.


Rhaegar

Where is she?

Obviously he knew the answer. Her little sister, a Princess, a dragon, the jewel of the realm, would rather play a mummer's farce on the streets of Braavos than keep his company a day longer. Of course, Varys had somehow found an advantage in spite of a little sister determined to place herself in a corner. In his mind, he knew he could not blame her, because Daenerys was a Targaryen after all, and Targaryens were meant for more than merely the caretaking of their crippled brethren. But that did not mean it did not hurt, her rejection of him.

Do you forget, all the love I bore you, when I raised you as practically my own daughter? Do you forget, when we laughed together, the only times I ever laughed, after the Trident. Do you forget, when you cried, and I held you, and told you of a better world someday, for both of us?

"The bitch isn't made for a Queen, or even a Lady of Winterfell," Connington chuckled in his corner, upon hearing the news from Varys. "Keep it going, she'll hang herself. Or slit her own wrist on Your Grace's throne, like Maegor, or the Maegor with the tits."

"Certainly," their Spider replied, "the worth of those who sit on the Iron Throne reveals themselves to the world, sooner or later."

Connington continued, his hand stroking the sword of the Usurper's as he talked. "Is this your doing, Varys?"

"Alas, a happy accident, though one which may have potential uses for our good cause."

"What of the selection of the new High Septon," Rhaegar asked.

"Yes," Varys merely agreed. "A most important matter, indeed."

"Septon Mychel's the one we want, right?"

Varys looked carefully at Connington first, then his King, before answering. "Our friend in King's Landing has assured me that a...preferable result will be had for us."

It wasn't that they did not trust Jon Connington, but the man had taken to drink more and more, especially since his last and unsuccessful war. Rhaegar did not begrudge his old friend for his failure, because by the time he'd come up against Benjen Stark, the war had already been lost, by his own brother no less. The war they waged now was one waged in secret, in the shadows and recesses and hidden corners between Pentos and the other side of the sea...a kind of war Rhaegar barely understood, much less a soldier like Connington.

"Our friend in King's Landing," he said after Connington had left, though Rhaegar wasn't quite sure whether he was just speaking to himself, or Varys. He'd guessed at it before, towards others, but events changed, during the reign of the Quiet Wolf, and then the wolf's daughter. And now with Jon Arryn dead, there remained only one constant remaining. "It's Baelish, isn't it?"

The Spider smirked, confirming his suspicions. "I have a feeling our friend will have his hand in many an important matter to come."


Petyr

"The whores will testify?"

The lean man with the gaunt eyes who wished to succeed as the next High Septon, whom his friends across the Narrow Sea wished to succeed as the next High Septon, was a very disagreeable man to Petyr Baelish, newly appointed the Hand to his Queen. He wondered how a man like Septon Mychel could sit before him, inside his favorite domain, when he knew that the holy man would be an implacable enemy to him, or his establishments, at the very least, once he became placed in a position of power. Yet, politics was funny, wasn't it, the alliances it created? For a man like Baelish, it paid, in more than just coin, to find allies everywhere, even in the most unlikely of people.

"They will tell the truth," he said, "that Septon Argus is a familiar patron to them. My understanding is, however, that they will seek you out, because you are pure, and they wish to repent of their sins and their ways...and certainly not because I led you to them."

"Hmmph," the holy man replied, determined to keep his dark and beady eyes upon him, and not the titillating sights of the scantily clad women, and some men, in his employ. His strenuous attempts at controlling himself, Littlefinger knew, only meant that Septon Mychel was a man with appetites he could scarcely control.

"With the pressures of the Sparrow presence in the city," Littlefinger continued, "...well, I wouldn't presume to lecture you upon the internal workings of the Faith, but...I imagine your position will be quite strong. Especially with these."

He handed to the holy man a batch of papers.

"What are those?"

"Letters."

"Letters?" Looking ever more closely, the Holy Man took one piece of parchment in his hands, eyes widening in terror and delight as he read its contents, then recognizing the seal and signature at its bottom.

"Letters from the Queen to her lover," Petyr said with a satisfied smile upon his face. "Letters from her lover to Her Grace. Letters which spell out the intent of the Queen and her lover to continue their unnatural...relations even after her marriage to Prince Viserys, words written by the Queen herself expressing her intent to take endless so-called...mistresses, once Her Grace reaches her majority."

It'd cost him gold, these letters. Not that he paid for them directly, the gold had gone first to the whores, who'd then provided the foolish boy all the complimentary services his establishment had to offer, enough to for him to convince the young man in finding the gall to court a Queen very much betrothed to another. Once the crime had been committed, Lancel Lannister became his captive entirely, with little more gold needed to ensure his obedience, if not absolute loyalty.

Not that the gold he'd already spent wasn't worth it, a cheap price to pay for the greatest prize he could dream of.