Tyrion

"First time at sea, Your Grace?"

The little princess nodded eagerly, turning her head away from him towards the bow of the ship, her eyes drifting from one corner of an endless sky to another. A fierce gale blasted a thick wave of water against their ship, rocking it severely enough to shake Tyrion onto the wooden floor of the deck, yet he watched the little girl clutching ever tightly her hands against the edge of the bow, seemingly unaffected by the torrents.

"You're taking better to this than my first time at sea. Or tenth, even. I remember, my father sailing Jaime and I to Fair Isle for a wedding. It was a spectacular event, they tell me, the young Lady Andrea Farman quite a beauty in those days, even more so than her sister Jeyne...Jeyne was a good friend of Cersei's you see..." Realizing that he was rambling, perhaps out of his own embarrassment at his clumsiness before the Princess, Tyrion stopped himself, dusted off his shoulders, and took a good swig of his wine. "My point is, I remember none of that, the wedding, or the beautiful bride, that is something I would've noticed then, even at my young age...but no, I all can think of, even now, is never leaving my room below-deck once, on the trip there, or back."

"It's a good thing my sister didn't appoint you her Master of Ship then," Arya said to him, regarding him with regal curiosity.

"Yes, that it may be."

They both looked away, once mention of their Queen reached their lips, and Tyrion recognized the apprehension they both felt for the increasingly fragile reign of Sansa I Stark.

"Do you think she'll be alright? My sister?"

Tyrion grimaced. For days they'd sailed within sight of the shore, though barely, their ship drifting through what would appear to be a dense fog, except it wasn't fog, not with the stench of burning which accompanied the smoke. He still wasn't entirely sure he fully believed in the Gods yet, the Seven, the northern tree Gods, or any more of the exotic eastern teachings stretching from Volantis to Asshai. But Tyrion did understand the minds of those who did believe, who did not have the benefit of books, of history, of maesters teaching them how to think, and minds capable of understanding how to apply the knowledge of the maesters, or in discerning the truth when it was the maesters and Septon who spoke falsely.

They'll think the fires a sign of the Gods, of their disfavor towards the Queen. If the dragons are dead, then the Gods will send their message of fire and blood all the same.

That was nonsense, of course. They all suspected, he and Baelish and Stannis, the more natural, and sinister, origins of the fires. But until they had proof...

"I won't mince words," he said. "Things are a bit, difficult right now...the sheer timing of it. Had the High Septon not passed, and the Sparrows not accompanied the faith into the city..."

It was all the worst possible coinciding of events he could ever imagine for his Queen, and now, his mind clearer after days away from the nest of vipers inhabiting the capital and its tallest Keep, it all made him wonder, and it all made him further worried about this expedition, because if Rhaegar, and the Spider who'd advised him, had never truly given up their war, then what of Doran Martell?

"...but the Council knows what they're doing, they'll get her through this, I do believe. The Crown is not without support...though the loyalties of the two southern kingdoms I'm not without concern for, Houses Stark, Arryn, Baratheon, Lannister, and Tully all stand together behind their Queen...that's more than your father had, you know, when he won the rebellion."

But did he believe that?

"It'll pass," he'd counselled the poor girl the morning before they sailed. "Everything passes."

"Not death." Something the little Queen knew far too well already. Tyrion pitied her, but pity couldn't run a kingdom, or help a Queen keep her crown.

"No, but this isn't death. It's foolishness. Perhaps you ought count its blessings, that it was found out now, and not after your marriage."

The girl sighed. "You were there, when I pledged myself to Viserys. I wish...I don't blame you, Lord Tyrion, but..."

"You regret it," Tyrion said. "I understand. It's a cruel irony, to be Queen, to have power, name, glory, a place etched in all the maesters' scrolls already, yet...the songs they'll sing of you, aren't the songs your heart truly desires, are they?"

She did not answer, because it hadn't been a question meant for her to answer.

"Some of the Targaryen kings got to choose whom they loved. A few lucky ones even married them."

"But the ones who had to marry out of duty, they had their mistresses, didn't they? They'd marry whomever their parents told them to marry, yet still get to be with the ones they love."

Tyrion looked around nervously. This was not the conversation he should be having with the girl. But her father was dead, and her mother, well, Queen she may be, Sansa Stark was still young enough to fear her mother's judgment, a ferocious thing indeed, to confide in her such...shameful thoughts. Which meant his role here was not to judge her, but not to provide just comfort either, in the end that was still the job of her family...but to provide counsel, as best, but also as compassionately, as he was capable of.

"Mistresses, yes. Some men keep one mistress, the Bloodraven for example, and love them all their lives. A king though...it can prove difficult for a King to remember the purity of love, when all they see day after day is an endless line women who would feign love for them, not for who they are, but because of their crown."

A sober silence from the girl, as she pondered the gravity of his words.

"Is that Ser Lancel, Lord Tyrion? Do you think he truly loves me, or..."

"I don't know. I promise you though, I will find out, next time I see the boy." He'd do a lot more than that, Tyrion swore. "It doesn't matter, even if his feelings are true, you need to forget him."

"I understand." The words came out as a whimper.

"Listen, Sansa," he said, knowing that he could regret these words, but he didn't have the heart not to say them. Besides, they'd sheltered her enough, hadn't they? The Queen was mere moons away from ruling in her own right, yet she still knew so little about the harshest truths of the world, the lessons in how to rule and carry power not to be found in books or the whispers of maesters...one the many ways that Tyrion saw that they'd already failed her. "You deserve more than Viserys Targaryen, that's the truth, and you know that. That's why your heart calls out for more. Perhaps my cousin does truly love you. Perhaps your love for Lancel is a childish affection, or perhaps it's true. Sometimes one is not much different than other, and most may never know the difference."

Who was he to talk of love, really? Just what did he know about the subject, except the love of the whores for his gold?

"But a man like Lancel..."

"What about him," the Queen asked anxiously.

"You're the Queen, Sansa Stark, First of your Name. You've seen war, you've led in battle, you know what it is for men to die for you."

Sansa nodded silently, and Tyrion understood that she wanted speak little more of said battle.

"Great knights like Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne will die for their King. Yet, you'd rather they live, because they can't swing a sword against your enemies once they're dead. Lord Stannis, he'd die for you, but you'd rather him live, because his council and his leadership is unmatched, and he serves you better by your side, than encased in a mausoleum in Storm's End. Even myself, I'd die for my Queen too...but I'd humbly believe that I'd also be of better use to you alive. But a man like Lancel Lannister...well, be he a knight, the Lord of Casterly Rock or a Prince of Dorne, a man like him serves absolutely no purpose to his Queen, except to die for her. Love whom you may love, Your Grace, and I do fervently wish that you will come to love another, apart from Viserys. And when you find love for another someday, find it with someone trustworthy, who can keep your secrets, who can serve you, make you a better Queen, a better woman. But for a man like Lancel, yes, he's decent face, a better name...but...forget your love...don't waste any more feeling on someone who'd cause more harm to you alive than dead."

Perhaps they were the least comforting words ever spoken from a councilor to a Queen or a King. Yet...despite her sadness, something in the Sansa Stark's eyes told him that deep down, she knew this, she knew that Lancel had been unworthy of her, yet she just hadn't been able to help her childish urges.

"I should ask, before I trust someone, shouldn't I?" Tyrion nodded. "I should ask mother's opinion, or Arya's, or Lord Baelish's, I need to better trust the people around me, because...because before me the others, they'd...wear a different face to me, because I'm the Queen."

"It takes time," Tyrion assured her, "learning to know how to read a man, or a woman, knowing what they want, what they truly want, knowing who they truly are. Some never acquire the skill, but I know you will some day, my Queen, because you are better than most men, I see it, I know it. And only when you understand the depths of their hearts, can you then trust them, with your life, with your crown, with their counsel...or with your heart, your secrets."

"Thank you, Lord Tyrion," the girl dipped her head shyly at him. "Your advice is always...immeasurable. I will miss it, while you are away."

"It is a privilege, Your Grace," Tyrion said kneeling,"the highest honor which can be bestowed upon a man, or Half Man." He was about to leave her chambers and pass under the wary eyes of a chastened Balon Swann, but then, he stopped, knowing that uncomfortable as he was, unsure as he was, it would gnaw away at him, unless he confessed to her.

"Queen Sansa?"

"Lord Tyrion?"

"You trust Lord Baelish, don't you?"

"I do," she replied, confused. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't?"

He'd expected careful displeasure from the Queen at first, accusations, that he was lying, that he was jealous of Littlefinger, and so forth. But that was how his sister would react, not this sweet girl. Yet, Tyrion knew that he still had to tread carefully.

"It's not that I don't...but...three years on the Small Council with him...Lord Baelish's work has been exemplary, Your Grace, and he's served the crown well, but...but..."

"You don't know him? You don't know his heart?"

An inadvertent smile, the girl learned well, so long as they knew the right lessons to teach her. "I'll tell you what I want, Your Grace. My father has always hated me, from the day he was born. He'd tell me with his eyes, oh, sometimes he'd tell with his very mouth that...I'm a disgrace to our family, to our name. Our name was always what was most important to Tywin Lannister, and he'd spent a lifetime carving it in gold, serving justice to our enemies...serving peace and prosperity to the realm. Yet, in one foul night, he'd disgraced House Lannister so permanently, wiping away all the good work he'd done serving King Aerys, presiding over the Westerlands. So look at me, Your Grace...the Imp, the Half Man, the twice disgraced Freak of Casterly Rock, disgraced by my very existence, and disgraced by the evils committed by my father. Believe it or not, Your Grace...my father probably doesn't, but I'd like to change that, I'd like...I'd like to spit upon my father's face, and have him know, before he passes, that it was his hated freak of a son who'd restored House Lannister's name and reputation before the Seven Kingdoms.

I serve you, Your Grace, because it's my duty, because I want to. Yet, I also serve you, because I'm selfish, and by serving you, I can fulfill my own self-serving desires. Every man is selfish, Your Grace. It may not be all to them, but it's part and parcel of every soul, every heart, man or woman, alive or dead, from the moment we leave our mother's womb, our first thoughts in this world are nothing, but pure want. Even the honorable ones like your father, or Arthur Dayne...honor has its own appetite too, to feed it to satiate your soul's sense of righteousness...there's a selfishness in that too."

The girl nodded, trembling, and Tyrion worried whether he'd overstepped his boundaries.

"And Lord Baelish," she asked, somehow retaining her remarkable composure.

"He's selfless. He's loyal. He's true to the crown. Yet...three years knowing the man, serving by his side, and I still haven't figured out what the man truly wants yet."

"Somewhere across these waters is Rhaegar." The girl's eyes drifted outwards again. "Maybe we should sail for Pentos first, and I'll kill him myself."

"Careful, Your Grace. There is peace between the two crowns, and once your sister marries Viserys, Rhaegar Targaryen be your goodbrother."

And just how much of that peace did he still believe, with the entire country cast under the fires of the dragon?


Catelyn

Most of her life since the day Catelyn Tully spoke her vows facing the young Lord of Winterfell in the Sept of Riverrun, the Queen and then Queen Dowager had wondered about the brash young Robert Baratheon, the Hammer of the South, the Lord of the Stormlands, Scourge of the Targaryens, and martyr for the Rebellion. Had Robert lived, all the lords, including her late father, would have been prepared to name him king, thanks to his distant line of blood tied to the dragons, and Catelyn would have settled for a quiet and cold life in the freezing north.

As Queen to her husband Eddard, she'd risen higher than any Tully had ever risen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. As a young girl, she'd been simultaneously excited yet terrified for such a prospect, though the moment Robb was born she'd been more concerned for her child than for power, or reputation, or glory. Yet in the back of her mind the young Queen had shamefully and inadvertently thanked the Gods for Robert's death, because that one death had kept her family south, that one death had kept them all close to her father, it'd kept her from having to travel to a cold and strange land and live a permanent stranger amongst a wild and bearded people, little different than the wildings across the Wall, she'd once thought.

Now, nine and ten years after the Rebellion, as she watched the wretched throne swallow up entirely the soul of her sweet and beautiful daughter, the Dowager Queen Catelyn of House Tully wondered whether the Gods had merely postponed their just and proper punishment for her greed, for her secret glee in the suffering of another.

"The Boltons," Stannis asked, confused. "Why would they destroy Baelor's Sept?"

"It depends," Petyr answered, "on what story we want to tell the people."

The Queen spoke. "Why wouldn't we tell the people the truth?"

Sansa had insisted on attending this Small Council meeting, her first since Rhaegar's Rebellion. They'd delayed it long enough, too long because soon, her daughter would have to rule in her own right. Yet they'd tried to protect her, Catelyn had seen the toll the war had taken on her eldest surviving child, she'd just wanted Sansa the ability to enjoy what remained of her childhood, foolishly thinking that time to learn was aplenty with the long peace safely in hand.

"Because both the truth and the lie will condemn the Boltons all the same, but the truth will destroy the Crown, whereas a lie may save it yet."

"Speak, Baelish," Stannis grumbled unhappily, "enough of these riddles."

"We've interrogated Roose and his entire household in the Black Cells," Petyr began, subtly glossing over the process as if brute torture could be polished in polite words for the young Queen to digest. "Their Maester, a man named Wolkan, has confessed to helping the new Master of Whispers with this foulest deed. If we tell the people the truth, that Roose Bolton and his bastard, proud Northmen both, aimed to prove their loyalty and devotion to House Stark by excessively eliminating their enemies in the Faith, it would ruin the peace, it could spread riots near and far."

"That's the truth of it," Lord Kevan asked, averting his eyes from the two women in the room.

"They acted alone, I can assure you," Petyr continued. "Doubtlessly the Queen had no idea the deviousness of her subjects, along with any in this Small Council."

"I understand the necessity for the lie," Stannis agreed, Catelyn silently thankful that she did not have to be the one to say the words. "What's the lie you suggest then, Littlefinger?"

"It would be difficult for the Crown to dismiss and distance itself from an act committed out of loyalty, out of a misguided sense of duty," Petyr lectured. From the window smoke from the fires billowed in, yet another ominous portent seemingly from the Gods themselves. "But an act committed in the name of a more outlandish and fanatical cause would be easier for the kingdoms to swallow."

"That is," Catelyn asked impatiently.

"The Old Gods. House Bolton worshipped the old ways, of flaying, of the tree Gods of the North. They hated the faith, and upon Lord Roose's appointment to the Small Council, they aimed to spark a war of religion with this vile act, in an attempt to influence the Crown in instituting worship of the Old Gods in all Seven Kingdoms."

"But that would be a lie," Sansa objected. "I…the Queen has lied enough to cause all this. Wouldn't more lies would further degrade the reputation of the Crown?" Despite all she'd been through, despite the embarrassment and the suffering and the torture the girl had undergone, Catelyn thought proudly that, at this most dire moment in her reign, Sansa, adorned in her gold emblazoned pink dress, looked as regal and as powerful a true Queen as she'd ever seen her.

"The Boltons will die regardless. You believe in the Seven, Your Grace, so does your mother, so does every man on your Small Council. It would be far more difficult for you to condemn these vile acts were they done in your name, even unknowingly, rather than committed for a religion you've never kept to."

Though she was a little girl whose power lay in their hands, all the Council naturally looked towards the Queen now that she was present, deferring to her naturally, though not because of fealty, Catelyn thought, but in order to wash their own hands of a difficult and terrible decision. Naturally enough, Sansa then looked first to her mother.

"Are we sure of their guilt," the Queen Dowager questioned Petyr.

"We have all their confessions."

There was a difference. She knew this, men like Stannis grasped it, even if Sansa didn't. But with so many disasters all converging on them all at once, as if it was indeed the will of the Gods that she and her daughter and family suffer, it came down to a matter of sheer expediency.

"Your Grace," Catelyn decided, choosing her words carefully. "The Crown must be protected, its reputation of the utmost importance before all else. Lord Baelish is right, the Boltons are condemned men. They are also new to the city, and the Council. Perhaps it's a...favor, from the Gods, that they were the ones who perpetrated this crime, rather than, say, Lords Stannis or Tyrion or Baelish...who've served you and your father for longer, and whose complicity would further tarnish the Crown."

Sansa was clever. Catelyn could only hope that she was not clever enough to further question just how these confessions were obtained from Roose Bolton and his bastard and household in the deepest cells of the dungeons. Watching her daughter turn her eyes back to Petyr, Catelyn couldn't tell exactly.

"Will the High Sparrow be present at the executions?"

"I'd imagine the Sparrows will comprise a rather vocal section of the crowd," Petyr replied apprehensively.

"The man probably considers himself the High Septon of all Seven Kingdoms by now," Stannis muttered unhappily. "Had he access or knowledge to Aerys's underground tunnels, I wouldn't surprised if he was the one responsible for the Sept."

They all looked around the table uneasily. The Lord of Storm's End had a point, though such an accusation would be difficult, nearly impossible, really, to prove, or enforce. Mace Tyrell raised his head unhappily.

"Randyll Tarly and his banners are patrolling the marches, I think they're within a few days of the capital." He looked at Catelyn, then Petyr. "He'd get here before Lord Edmure, or the Knights of the Vale. If we believe there could be...disorder, to the city, Lord Randyll would be able to...do what would be necessary."

Catelyn did not believe Mace Tyrell believed in the Seven as fervently as she did. Nor was he an unbeliever like Stannis, or Petyr, as she suspected of her old friend, but something more akin to a man like Tyrion, who kept to the New Gods, but in a rather casual manner. But it was very well known that many of his vassals in the Reach, including the Hightowers of Oldtown, were not just devoted, but took pride in being seen as the most devout. Just how happy would they be, if Mace ordered the Tarly's to crush the Sparrows? Not that Catelyn trusted the Tarly's, or the Tyrells for the matter, because Catelyn understood that it was exactly those who were unsteady in their own faith, who yet needed to impress upon others their piety, who would be tempted to side with the fanatics when it came to the stupid, but ultimately harmless indiscretions of her daughter. Then, it was that word again, expediency, in which name she would have to rely upon such unreliable allies, though they could be countered once Edmure arrived with his men.

"Write him," Catelyn agreed reluctantly. "Tell him to be ready to march to the capital, if we do deem it necessary."

She would have thought that Sansa hadn't been paying attention. When she spoke, Catelyn realized instead that her daughter had been deep in thought.

"The Boltons will be executed by the ruins of the Sept," she said, with all the authority of a Queen Regnant, in her majority and all the power of her Throne residing within her name. "I will attend, and before the High Sparrow himself, plead forgiveness for my sins and for my crimes."

Her first statement hadn't been unexpected, not by Catelyn at least, because Ned Stark was her father, and she was a girl...nay woman, who understood fully the meaning of the word duty. But her second suggestion left them aghast.

"Your Grace," Stannis spoke first, interrupting Petyr, "you can't give in to these fanatics."

"You won't be able to please a man like this," Petyr agreed. "What if he demands you give up your very crown?"

"Then I'll refuse him," the Queen replied calmly, strength billowing through her voice. "If the Sparrows are unreasonable, the people will see the truth, they'll see that I tried to make peace, that their queen wished for compromise, that she is faithful, and freely came before them in good faith, and that the Sparrows are the ones who are being unreasonable." She turned calmly to Mace Tyrell. "In which case, Lord Mace, Lord Stannis...feel free to order your men to enforce peace in the city. With any luck, there will be less who would riot or disturb the peace, on behalf of the Sparrows."

"Your Grace," Petyr replied, moved, but firm in his stance. "I understand your wish for peace. Come the day they write the story of your reign in the Citadel, perhaps you'll be remembered as Sansa the Peacemaker. But I beg of you, do it from the safety of the Keep. The city is dangerous, in a state of unrest, the people are unhappy, nearly stirred to rebellion by the rhetoric of this High Sparrow. Your Queensguard is depleted, and however many men we bring with us to the ruins...they outnumber us, they will always outnumber us."

"Perhaps," Sansa said, her tone stubborn in a way that reminded Catelyn of her late husband. Of herself even, others may say, with some truth to it. "But the Queen believes she needs to see her people, speak to her people. If you disagree, Lord Baelish, if the Council disagrees and overrules me, then say it, and I beg say it openly."

Therein lay the challenge from the Queen. Catelyn would have voiced her disagreement, but she bit her lips, recognizing the time was approaching for her daughter to learn and practice how to assert her authority, and she imagined there would be plenty more days in the future where she'd have to quietly and obediently disagree with her daughter.

"Will the Queen be safe," she asked Ser Courtnay instead, suppressing the dread she felt in her very gut, a mother's instinctual fear for what could happen to her daughter if she exposed herself before all the city at this most perilous time.

"We're short a few," the Lord Commander replied, "but with the Baratheon and Lannister men standing guard, we should be able to fend off the Sparrows."

"And the mob," Stannis added, "should it become a mob."

"Your Grace is intent on this," Petyr asked, nay, begged Sansa one last time, but her daughter only nodded coldly.

"The Queen can no longer hide."

"Very well," he replied, unwilling to fight her further. The Queen's Hand flipped to another scroll. "There are these rumors spreading from the Citadel regarding the discovery of another late High Septon's diary, written in the days before Robert's Rebellion broke out...


Sansa

The crowds that cheered her immediately after she'd won the war was a completely different one which greeted her below a hill topped with crumbling burnt stone. Sansa shuddered, thinking about all the devoted and kind men of the Faith whose bodies still lay buried and rotting underneath the wreckage, and would be for some time. There seemed no safe place for her to place her eyes, the sound of blades cracking and heads tumbling in one direction, the oddly triumphant and gloating smirk from the ragged man they called the High Septon from beside her, or the sullen, angry glares of the same peopled who'd loved her and cheered her now casting judgment and blame on her from every direction. Before, she'd stood above them upon the steps of the Sept. Now, standing at their level, the men and women of King's Landing seemed to tower over her, like a wave about to crash against her.

Nor was her sight her only sense which lay under assault. The smell of burning permeated the air, not just the sickening, diseased stench of the vile concoctions the Boltons used to destroy the Sept, but the smoke from the fires across the river, burning along the Blackwater itself, permeating and blurring every street of the city, from Keep itself to Flea Bottom, the ruins of the Sept to the ruins of the Dragonpit. She heard the whispers sitting in her wheelhouse earlier, that she herself was accursed, that the Gods were punishing the nature and the very city itself for her crimes.

Finally, they'd finished executing all of the Boltons and their household, even their Septa, who'd confessed to betraying the Faith for the Northern Gods. Taking a deep breath, Sansa looked first to her mother and Lord Baelish, then the High Sparrow man, before she started to speak.

"Justice has been done. Yet justice delayed is in itself an injustice. Vile men chose to commit the vilest blasphemy. In their attempt to destroy the Faith, they've massacred not just pious and good men devoted to the Gods, but also hundreds of innocent men, women, and children who had the misfortune of living or walking in the wrong place on that day. But the Faith is strong, it will recover despite this most horrible wound inflicted upon it, as will the people of King's Landing, who will rise above and rebuild.

Yet if it were vile men who committed the deed, the blame cannot fall wholly upon their heads. The Queen, the Crown, are institutions set by the Gods atop the realms of man. If the Crown strays from the paths set forth by the Gods, then so she should expect her own subjects to stray further. I confess then, that I have sinned, that my examples of unfaithfulness, unholiness, have infected the hearts of my subjects. The blood of all who died run just as much upon my own hands, as they do upon the Boltons. It is a lesson I will never forget. I cannot bring back the lives of those who died. I can only promise my repentance, beg for the forgiveness of Gods and men, and vow that as your Queen, I will lead this country as the Gods intended me to, with chastity, with virtue, and in accordance with the tenets of the Seven."

For once, the words were entirely her own, though her mother and Lord Petyr had read them beforehand, making few alterations this time. It seemed odd that her Hand would have opposed her wish to speak to the people, coming so soon after Lord Tyrion's vague warning regarding the man. Tyrion didn't know what Lord Baelish wanted. Sansa figured it was just to serve her house, her mother, while advancing his own family name, no different than any of the other lords who served her. Yet...wasn't House Baelish merely a house of one? Even Tyrion had spoke of betrothals to various houses in the Westerlands, yet Lord Petyr had never shown any interest or inclination to marry, and so continue the legacy of his family. In opposing him on one occurrence and insisting upon her own way, Sansa was no closer to finding out what Petyr Baelish truly wanted. But perhaps it was a start.

Or, Petyr could just be a selfless man dedicated to serving her. Which meant that Tyrion was the one who was lying, and therefore untrustworthy.

The troubled Queen turned her head at the High Sparrow, his eyes cast down upon her, as if he pitied her plight, though Sansa could not begin to hope that her words could have moved this man, given all they'd told her about him. Her brother had started a war, out of love, or lust, or whatever it was, and her aunt Lyanna...could it be that Rhaegar's lies had been the truth after all, that her aunt had also helped start a war by falling in love, marrying a man who was already married to another? The High Sparrow was certain to condemn her, Sansa thought, and she could only hope that she would be the one sinful Stark to buck the trend, that somehow the people could listen to both their testimonies and remember the love they'd once had for her.

"I was tending to the burns of a dying man this morning," the High Sparrow began, in his aching, croaking voice. "He suffers now in pain, he suffered all his life a beggar on these very streets, yet his heart never strayed from his faith in the Seven. He was a blind man. He'd never read the Seven Pointed Star, though he'd heard verses read to him before, and memorized what he could of what his ears have heard all his life. His faith is commendable, yet his knowledge of the sacred words incomplete. He asked me, 'are the seven Gods truly one, or is it one God with seven heads?' A common question, though as I counselled him, I counsel all of you now, the answer, as with all answers, lie within the text of the Seven Pointed Star."

His wrinkled hands held high in the air a ragged edition of the tome.

"'To the eyes of man, the Gods are one. To the eyes of the Gods, who sit across each other upon the high table, the Father at its head, the Mother by his side, and their children below them, from Maiden to Crone, from Warrior to Stranger...'"

A pause, as if to let his words sink into the crowd, though Sansa found it strange that he'd not yet found the urge to condemn her personally yet.

"'The Father at its head,'" he repeated, voice rising, approaching a shout, "the Mother, the womenfolk, the children below the Father, because the Gods are not equal, the women and the children, even the mighty Warrior, sit subservient to the Father, who leads the heavens. And what is the Crown in this sinful world, except a meager but necessary attempt to imitate the Godly nature of those above us? How can we expect then, the blessings of the Gods, when we allow a woman...nay, a mere girl, a child, to sit in the seat which watches above us, a flippant mockery of the picture painted for us in the Seven Pointed Star?

It matters not to the Gods what house or sigil sits upon the Throne, be it Wolf, or Trout, or Dragon. All that matters is that the man who rules this country is a man of the Faith, who keeps to the messages of the Seven, not the profane gods of the woods who have been proven false thousands of years ago. And yes, many in the House of the Dragon were sinful, evil creatures, who committed the worst heresies despised by the Gods...incest, adultery, patricide and fratricide...yet, a Targaryen king who sits in the Throne is sinful only if he chooses to be sinful. A woman who sits on the throne is sinful by her very existence, by her very act in presuming to usurp the seat of the Father, so how can we expect her to be chaste and faithful in other manners, to rule this country in a way which pleases the Gods, in keeping to the principles of the Seven Pointed Star?

Look around you, my beloved people. Fires consume this country, fires threaten the Queen's capital itself, from without and within, the fires, with the aid of the profane brethren of Sansa Stark of Winterfell, have destroyed very nearly the entire institution in which the Gods carry out their good work in this world. Are we surprised, from original sin, breeds more sin, more curses, more suffering which will continue to plague our unlucky existence? That the great whore, who poses as the Maiden, further sullies..."

"That's enough," Stannis shouted, a dozen of his knights suddenly standing in formation, face to face against the High Sparrow, who stood against them fearlessly, inspiring with his blind courage the many dozens of robed Sparrows, seemingly willing to wage war in the very city.

"Come, Your Grace," Ser Balon said, taking her by the shoulders to lead her back to the wheelhouse. Craning her head at the worsening situation, she saw Lannister men in their recognizable helmets gathering in the spot where she and her mother stood just moments before, and the grumbles in the crowd surrounding her at the terrible sight of armored men ready to make war against the unarmed Sparrows.

"Please," she shouted even as she was being led away. "I beg of you all, let's make peace..."

"Are you going to massacre us," the High Sparrow taunted in Stannis's direction, "and thus wipe out the only men left remaining who speak for the Gods in this sinful realm?"

A scream, a robe of a Sparrow bloodied by an arrow through his heart, falling onto the ground next to the headless bodies of the Boltons.

"Back," Stannis screamed, "hold!"

The crowd grew restless, and Sansa began hearing various shouts and curses emerging from around her, from voices belonging to men and women and children alike.

"Sinners!"

"Cursed be they, who murder good men o'the Faith!"

"Cast them out, these tree worshippers!"

"All hail Sansa the Accursed, may her reign be short, to save this city!"

"Fuck the Queen, and cursed be any man who bends th'knee t'her, an' raises a sword fer her!"

"Hurry," Ser Balon urged, as another look back saw the waves of the crowd approaching her soldiers in unison, with a growing determination as the individual screams and curses now blended together in an ominous and murderous hum. Looking forward, her wheelhouse seemed so far away now, and her legs felt weak even as she ran towards the vehicle, several of her Queensguard and more of Stannis's knights trying to keep up with her on either side, doing their best to shield the crowd from their Queen with their bodies.

"Back, back," they threatened with their swords and shield raised. A burst of pain on her arm, and Sansa screamed, then saw in relief that it had only been a piece of rotting fruit which struck her, from somewhere back in the crowd. Thankfully, she'd reached the wheelhouse, running inside just as she heard another horrid splat land where she'd been standing last.

"Get in," she heard her mother shout, steps away along with Lord Petyr.

"Hurry, mother," Sansa screamed, seeing with her own eyes the line of knights buckling as they continued to hold back the mob. Blood splattered onto the ground, as her men began stabbing and striking those who at the front of the mob who were struggling frantically, threatening to break through, yet the blood shed seemed to infuriate the people even more.

Then, she saw it happen. A large, dark object, its deadly arc emerging from somewhere near the front of the crowd, whistling clunkily and ungracefully through the air, falling, lurching in their direction.

"Mother! Uncle Petyr! Watch out!"

They turned, both of them, along with Ser Boros Blount, the whitecloak protecting the Queen Dowager, who watched dumbly as the rock pummeled its sharp end directly into the side of her mother's head, her body collapsing instantly into the arms of Ser Boros.

"Cat," Petyr screamed, and the two men lifted her limp body into the now crowded wheelhouse.

"Mother!" Sansa leaned forward, praying to all the Gods that her mother was not too badly hurt, grabbing her hand as they straddled her over the laps of Ser Balon and Lord Baelish, sitting across from their Queen.

For a second, she could see the bloody wreck on the side of her mother's head, behind her right eye, before Ser Balon cut off a piece of his cloak, pressing it against the wound, trying to staunch the awful rush of blood emerging from it. But it was too late. Sansa could feel the touch of her mother's hand growing cold in her own, and see lifeless eyes gazing at her daughter in everlasting horror.


Lewyn

"Was that part of your plan," the King asked the Spider angrily. "Destroying the Sept?"

"They're saying hundreds, perhaps even thousands, were killed," Lewyn said accusingly, "Septons and smallfolk alike."

"I promise you," the Spider replied, a hint of desperation in his voice, "I had assurances from our friend in King's Landing that preparations would be made for the restoration of Your Grace's crown. I trusted he would have the matter handled, but...I did not know, truly, the horrible extent he would go to make it happen."

Ser Lewyn watched the King take in Varys's words, and wondered whether Rhaegar would now order him to execute the man, despite his pleas of ignorance. Part of him wished for such an order. Rhaegar would not be able to wage his wars, whether in the open, or in the shadows, without the help of his Spider, and Lewyn could hope that an impulsive decision made in the heat of the moment now would end with finality this foolish business.

But the King's demeanor calmed, and when he spoke, he did so quietly, firmly.

"He will be punished for his crimes, once I sit on the Iron Throne."

Closing his eyes, the Spider bowed obediently, and Lewyn wondered just how grateful the man was for this act of mercy. He'd confided in Lewyn before, that he only wished to help the people, and that he truly believed in Rhaegar, that their King was the man best fit to lead the seven kingdoms. Did he feel any guilt now, in having failed so horribly the same people he'd claimed he was protecting?

"We are running out of time. Sansa Stark will soon reach her majority. We ought make preparations, Your Grace. How soon can we set sail?"

"Within a fortnight," Lewyn answered, when Rhaegar turned his purple eyes at him.

"Very well," Rhaegar proclaimed regally. "The hour is finally approaching. Let us all be ready when it comes."

There was a shadow of triumph in his voice, and Lewyn wondered whether His Grace had already forgotten about the blood of hundreds of innocents that had been shed once again in his name, to join the ever growing list of souls sacrificed for the cause of Fire and Blood, so as to sate that Red Woman's fury.