Sansa

The nights were colder than before. Winter was coming, and she was far from prepared. The pack had been torn apart, picked off one by one before her very eyes. The castle she grew up in was one filled with strangers now. Where once her mother and father and Robb and grandpapa and Jon Arryn roamed the halls, knowing what was best for her, for their family, there was only Bran and Rickon, who were younger than her, and depended upon her in the same way she'd depended all who'd been ripped away from their pack. Then there was Lord Petyr, whom Lord Tyrion did not entirely trust, yet the man's eyes had been swollen with grief ever since that horrible day in the riots. Even though he did not weep openly, Sansa saw the way his chest heaved, as the flames consumed what little she had left of her mother, of both her parents, a King and Queen whose reigns had been far too brief. She could only hope that they were together now, with Robb, that they were happy, and that they could all watch over her, and her younger siblings, in a way she could not, throne or no throne.

Yet just how well did father and Robb watch over us, watch over mother? Maybe it's all lies, maybe the heavens are false, and so are the Gods...maybe there's nothing after death.

Where could her mother's sweet soul be then, could the gentle spirit of Queen Catelyn Tully, born of Riverrun, who loved and worshiped the Gods more than anyone Sansa knew, including the High Sparrow, really be cast and consigned out into nothingness? Sansa could only hope, she could only hold deeply her faith that it was not so.

"What will happen to the boat," Rickon asked innocently, her youngest brother cradled tightly under her arms, as if she were his mother now.

"The boat will burn too," Sansa replied, with more confidence than she'd had. "The ashes will fall into the sea, and mother's soul will be free to soar over all the rivers and waters of this realm."

It was only they, and Lord Petyr, and Ser Balon, who'd shot the flaming arrow onto the pyre, thankfully in one attempt, standing by a small cove at the end of one of the many secret tunnels under the Keep. Catelyn Tully deserved better than this. A former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms deserved more than this. A mother deserved more than this, yet this was the only ceremony Sansa could give her, with the city completely broken down and the rioters and mobs roaming freely through all the streets outside the walls of the Keep.

"I'll miss you, Cat," she heard Petyr whisper next to her. "I never thought...it'd end this way. I failed you, in the end. For that, I'm truly sorry."

That was what he wanted, Sansa suddenly realized. Of course she knew the stories of how her Hand, when he was a young boy, had challenged Brandon Stark for her mother's hand in marriage. It was a fancy which had passed through the sands of time, mother told her, when Sansa had asked about it. She'd believed her, but Sansa recognized now that her mother was either lying to her, or lying to herself. Tyrion, however, hadn't been lying, he just never understood that Petyr Baelish never fell out of love with Queen Catelyn, the only true Queen in his eyes. Petyr Baelish served her father, then her own crown, so faithfully, so as to express his love, his devotion, his truest fealty and chivalry, to the woman whom he'd always loved...and to a woman who could never love him back. Especially not now.

So as she wept for her mother, she wept for Uncle Petyr too, who'd loved and suffered in silence, whose love may never be sung upon the lips of the fair maidens in the seven kingdoms he'd held together, for the sake of his love.

"I heard the riots are getting better," Bran said. He was growing fast, almost as tall as herself now.

"The arrival of the Tarly's should settle things down," Sansa said, her left hand clasped with her brother's. Did Arya know already? It wasn't right, that she wasn't here, that she would have to find out of their mother's death, caused by her own stupidity and endless failures, from a raven in a strange country amongst a stranger people. "Lord Renly is marching too, from Storm's End. He'll take command of the Baratheon hosts once he arrives."

Many of the Westerland and Stormland soldiers died in the melee which ensued after the High Sparrow's speech, a good number of them shielding her wheelhouse on its rocky way back to the Keep, the one they'd all shared aghast in solemn silence, Sansa, Petyr, Ser Balon, and the bloodied body of her mother, from whom Sansa could never avert her eyes, a vision which still plagued her sleep every night. Many more survived, enough to patrol the streets in the days since the riot, keeping certain sections of the city at peace, but they could not be everywhere, at once. As Uncle Petyr had said to her, they outnumbered them, they always will. Yet Sansa had not listened, and her mother, her younger siblings, would pay the price of yet another one of her mistakes.

But Stannis Baratheon was not one of the men who'd survived the battle. They kept his body in the dungeons now, next to where her mother lay for several days. Renly Baratheon would come to the capital and claim it, taking Stannis's remains back to Storm's End along with his daughter, a girl younger than her, who was now the castle's Lady. Then Sansa would be even more alone in the Keep where she'd grown up.

"I'd sent a ship here," Petyr said, his every word still choked with grief, "years ago, when Viserys attacked the city. If the worst did happen, and King's Landing fell, this is where Ser Balon was instructed to bring you, and all your family."

"You think we may have to flee the city now," Bran asked. He was growing the more clever by the day, and Sansa wondered if grandpapa's ghost somewhere close or far now rued his decision to put that crown on her head instead of his.

"We don't necessarily trust the Tarly's," Sansa replied. "Not after they'd marched with Viserys for several fortnights during the last war."

"The dragons are coming," Petyr warned ominously. "We were too trusting. You gave them peace, Your Grace, far more generous terms than they deserved. Yet, we were too naive to believe they'd actually stoop to be grateful for your generosity. All these calamities...it can't be a coincidence, I can't believe that now. Yet we were complacent, we tended to a country at peace, even whilst our enemies never stopped making war against us."

She should say something strong, or wise, or at least comforting, so as to offer something to ease her younger siblings. But the Queen's throat stayed dry, as lame as her pitiful reign upon her father's Throne.


Tyrion - Year 301

He should have known something was wrong the moment their ship docked by Sunspear. Prince Quentyn had been absent, understandable given his condition, and they were greeted only by one of Doran Martell's sworn swords, a lumbering Norvoshi man named Areo Hotah. Then from behind several rocks in the cove emerged half a dozen Martell ships, gliding silently and threateningly into a position which preempted any chance of a retreat back by sea, though Tyrion figured that had he smelled the trap and never landed, they would've chased them down anyway, and Tyrion did not believe that the young Princess's skills treading water matched her abilities with a sword.

"Don't try it," the Norvoshi guard threatened, as from behind a hill emerged hundreds of banners and what appeared to be thousands of men marching under them. "We have you outnumbered ten to one."

Seeing Arya moving her hand towards her small sword, Tyrion lifted his palm, telling her to hold off.

"They may well kill us later. But they haven't chosen to kill us now...yet. Let's see what is it exactly that they want."

So they rode as prisoners the short distance into the castle of Sunspear. Watching the Dornishmen strip the so called protection they'd brought of their armor and weapons, Tyrion beckoned Arya forward into a lush, flowery courtyard, where he recognized a thin, elder man sitting in a wheelchair.

The large Norvoshi man walked to his place flanking the Prince's side, and Tyrion worried that Arya would lose her composure here and now. If the Dornish had the gall to make a move against them, what did that mean of what Prince Doran already knew, regarding Rhaegar, and what his court would do to their Queen in King's Landing? Beside him, Clegane grunted. They'd allowed him along with the Princess and her two whitecloaks in keeping their weapons, outnumbered as they were. If they were going to die anyway, perhaps it would not be so bad if they killed Doran Martell out of sheer impulse, with the war already initiated, one last act of suicidal stupidity, in an ultimately fruitless gesture.

"I did not know Dorne still had an army after the defeats we inflicted upon you in the last war. And I do presume, Prince Doran, that this is a war you're trying to start, entrapping a Princess Royal and the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands."

"No," came the raspy reply from the Prince. "Not a war. Not this time. And I apologize for the rude welcome, I just needed some assurances on my part that this...misunderstanding would not devolve into violence."

"You don't want violence," Tyrion questioned skeptically. "You expect your Queen to surrender her crown to the criminal Rhaegar without a battle?"

"In fact, I do," Doran countered. "And not because I hold her sister and Master of Law, though I will admit, your presence here will give Dorne some further confidence...should things not go as smoothly as we'd expect. But please," the older man said, holding out his hands in an almost welcoming manner, "you are my guests, we will share salt, break bread, whatever the sayings go."

"Guest rights, is it," Tyrion asked, seeing a long line of scantily clad women holding various spears or swords or other weapons eyeing them threateningly from one of the nearby open corridors. The infamous Sand Snakes of the late Prince Oberyn, Tyrion reckoned...who would be certainly eager to avenge the death of their father at the hands of the Stark armies. "You expect us to believe we're your guests, and not your prisoners?"

Doran shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "So long as you don't violate your obligations as my guests...believe you me, some things will happen, then King Rhaegar will take his rightful throne. He's written me, asking me to be gentle with my guests, assuring me, as I assure you now, that once this period of...confusion is over, both the Half Lord and the Princess will be free to travel where they wish...although, Princess Arya, if you still wish to wed my son Quentyn, out of respect to both your family and King Rhaegar, who has given me his permission for the marriage...then certainly you are free to remain in Dorne and make your home here."

"Fuck you. Fuck your son."

The girl's eyes raged with anger, yet she looked uncertainly at him, and Tyrion wrinkled his nose, so as to try and communicate to her without words that now was not the time to fight, not when they stood at such disadvantage.

"Her anger is reasonable, surely you can't begrudge her for it," he said, taking a deep breath. "Tf we're to be your guests, then out with the wines and the cheeses and meats then, I'll have you know that the Princess particularly has a fondness for a perfectly seasoned and roasted piece of chicken, which we've not had after so long at sea..."

"Do you believe him," Arya whispered as they were escorted to their quarters by their heavily armed guards.

"Of course not," Tyrion replied dismissively, "though I figure, if we have to die, then might as well be with our stomach full and our minds numbed by wine."


Cersei

"I'm so sorry, milady. I know it's not much..."

The Lady of Winterfell forced a smile, though it was her youngest daughter she smiled to, rather than Lollys Stokeworth.

"It's perfectly fine, Lady Lollys." Gods, those two words did not go well together. "The house of the pigs," Cersei Lannister scoffed and laughed, "I'm glad Sow's Horn finally belongs to a house that's...worthy...of its name."

"Yes, House Hollard is a house on the rise these days," the Lady Lollys said happily and proudly, bearing a toothy smile at her drunken slob of a husband. "I know Duskendale is a grander castle, but it's several days away off the Kingsroad, and I've heard awful things about these Sparrows that are wandering the countryside..."

"No, I can't imagine they are too pleased, aren't they?" Another forced smile. A lifetime ago, Cersei Lannister had dreamed of wedding her dream Prince in the Great Sept of Baelor. None of that happened, the fair and valiant Prince Rhaegar first spurned her for a Martell whore, then a Stark girl barely older than Myrcella now. Consigned to the freezing North with the rest of her family for what seemed like an eternity now, she still managed to hold back a smirk, for the sake of her children, upon hearing what had transpired in King's Landing. There were whispers that the Queen herself had ordered the destruction of the Sept, and all the Septons inside. Cersei did not think this likely, but it'd been years since she'd last seen Sansa Stark, and she did not doubt that an Iron Throne could change the hearts and souls of those who held it.

I hope she did order it. I'd admire her gall if she did, let them all burn, impudents alike.

"Of course, you may stay with my sister at Castle Stokeworth," the silly woman babbled on, "but I do have to warn you, Falyse is a most unpleasant woman, and her husband..." The girl shuddered, rather than speak further.

"Sow's Horn would be fine," Cersei assured her, clutching Tommen's hand tightly in her own, "and I do thank you so much for your hospitality, Lady Lollys."

There was Duskendale, Baelish's castle, and part of her very much desired its grander accommodations, the hospitality a great lady of the north and west deserved, but with everything going on in the capital, Cersei did not feel exactly comfortable taking her two daughters to the castle of a brothel owner. Part of her wondered whether she should ride back North, rather than wait out the riots and the street battles they said were occurring on some of the grubbier sections of the city, but she'd come so far already. It had been truly so long since she'd left the frozen wasteland of the North...not that Benjen would have prohibited her from visiting Tyrion at Casterly Rock...but why would she ever want to visit Tyrion, and take the chance that she'd unknowingly miss Jaime on one of his visits to Winterfell? That had been the reason she'd written to the man who'd just exiled her father and brother and lover, after all, proposing to marry said man's younger brother, allegedly for the sake of forging a peace between their two houses.

"Oh, I do hope this awful business with the Sept doesn't ruin the Queen's wedding..."

Untangling the fabrics of Tommen's seemingly permanently untucked shirts, Cersei looked back up Lollys.

"The Queen's wedding," she questioned. Just how foolish was this plain woman? "I doubt that's happening, not for some time, what with the Sept destroyed and all the Septons dead."

"Oh," Lollys replied, giving her a strange, confused look. "Well, that's odd. They say the Prince Rhaegar just landed off the shores of Duskendale, to attend his brother's wedding and formally forswear his claim to Queen Sansa's throne..."


Petyr

"The city will hold, I believe."

"Thanks to you immediate arrival, Lord Tarly," Petyr replied. "The city, and the Crown, is in your debt."

"A seat on the Regency Council is the least we can offer," Kevan Lannister replied, "considering how we'd lost two of its members in one day, and my nephew's off sailing far away in Dorne."

Kevan Lannister was no fool, but he was predictable. Which meant Petyr could manipulate him without revealing his true loyalties, or so they'd believe. The man was religious, firmly enough rooted in Andal tradition and upbringing to find the idea of a woman sitting on the Iron Throne unsettling, even repulsive, though his courtesies kept him from expressing such sentiments in the same appalling manner as the High Sparrow. This was, lest they all forget, Tywin Lannister's younger brother, which naturally meant he'd inherited at least a piece of the former Lord of Casterly Rock's ambition, along with his cleverness. Nor had Petyr observed any fondness between the man and his nephew, which would translate into resentment towards the deformed man's place at the head of their very proud family. Kevan Lannister would've never dreamed of making a move against his elder brother. But the despised, deformed son?

"An empty gesture," Randyll muttered. "The riots are quelled today. And I'm honored by this seat at the high table, I assure you, my lords. But the Regency ends the moment the Queen reaches her name-day in less than two moons now, doesn't it?"

"It does," Petyr agreed. "I do believe that the Queen will retain myself as Hand, and as such, she will be take heed of any counsel I give her regarding her Small Council. Your reputation as a soldier precedes you, Lord Randyll. So long as I have the assurance your absolute and undying loyalty to Queen Sansa, I would be confident that you would serve Her Grace well as her new Master of War."

"Don't talk down to me, Baelish," Randyll spat back at him, "fancy brooch or not, you're still a whoremonger in the eyes of most of us."

"If anything, your place as Hand gives credence to the High Sparrow's sermons."

They'd taken well to each other, after Randyll's arrival at the capital, a natural consequence of one shared belief, Kevan Lannister's born out of religion, Tarly's out of a soldier's natural distaste for weakness, whether from women, or even men such he, or his own firstborn son for the matter, whom he'd exiled to the Wall. Which was all good, their alliance against Sansa, against himself, had been everything Petyr could have hoped for when inviting the Tarly's to keep the peace in King's Landing.

"The Sparrows are fanatics, dangerous ones at that, but their words are borne of truth," Randyll replied. "Aye, name me Master of War, give me that brooch and make me Hand...I'm an old man, Baelish. Do you ask me to fight your Queen's wars forever, to keep a dumb girl on the throne contrary to the wishes of most of this realm, save an uncle in the Riverlands and a few relatives on the far side of the frozen North?"

"Not this again," Baelish bemoaned.

Yes, exactly this again. Obviously Varys told him about the truth of Tarly's brief support of the Targaryen restoration during the last rebellion. And Petyr had urged Varys in keeping the cultivation of his relationship with the man, because after all his quarrel had been with a rogue Prince, and not his older brother and so-called King. Randyll Tarly was clueless that it had been Petyr who'd cultivated the exact conditions for his timely arrival in the capital, and subsequent promotion to the Regency Council, though Petyr knew that Varys knew what Tarly did not.

"We can't move any further against the Sparrows," Mace Tyrell said sadly. "Enough of them died during the first riot, despite the fact that none have raised any arms against any of the the Queen's men, much less the smallfolk."

"Yet it's the High Sparrow's words which incite the smallfolk to violence," Petyr added.

He hadn't meant it to happen like this. Catelyn was supposed to be alive. Even Stannis, Petyr never cared much for the man, but he'd remain loyal to Sansa, and such appearances were necessary. Both of them would undeniably support the Queen, along with Tyrion Lannister, which gave her three out of five votes in her Regency Council. Which was why Tyrion had to be sent away from the capital, Tarly taking his place, and then aligned with Lord Kevan. As for Mace Tyrell, he'd support Sansa were he a weaker member of the Council, wilting under the shadows of men like Hoster Tully or Jon Arryn. Or if the Crown had offered him even one royal marriage for Loras or Margaery. Not that his vote mattered, with the Lannister and Tarly alliance enough to outnumber any lone dissenting vote from Mace Tyrell, because Cat had died with Stannis. For this, Petyr blamed himself. The girl's sudden insistence in taking her place and asserting her authority he should have expected, though he figured that he'd been lulled into complacence by her complacence. Yet, how could he blame on his own person something as unpredictable as fortune's frown itself, a loose and heavy rock thrown from the crowd which could have easily caved in Boros Blount's head, or his own, for the matter?

"Kill the High Sparrow," Randyll asserted, "and more will take his place, so long as a weak girl sits on the Iron Throne. Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn defied the traditions of this land for a few years, but they can't outrun time, or history, forever. Neither can she."

"What are you suggesting," Mace asked his vassal, as if Randyll were the liege lord rather than he.

"Margaery serves as one of her ladies. Or hostage, perhaps, in the last war. What happens next time the Queen is under assault? What if Margaery had accompanied her to the ruins, and Ser Courtnay's men, seeking to protect the royal family, left her to the masses? Don't deny it, Mace, you know as well as I that it'll be endless war, the Queen against all her realms and peoples in turn, same as the Dance of Dragons, so long as the will of the Great Council of 101 is continually defied. And don't tell me marriage to Viserys Targaryen will make it better, I've met the man, he'll add himself tenfold to his Queen's wars."

"Lord Randyll," Petyr said in a hushed voice. "I've warned you before, what you're speaking of strays far too close to treason..."

"I sit on the Regency Council now," Randyll stated plainly. "Does the Regency Council not hold in its hands the entirety of the sovereign powers of the Iron Throne, until it is dissolved upon the day the sovereign comes of age? One can argue that just as a King cannot commit treason against himself, neither can the Regency Council...or any who'd sit upon it."

It did gnaw at him, the man's conceit, in purporting to believe himself the most powerful man in Westeros now, when such power had been so carefully arranged to be handed on a golden platter to its ignorant recipient. But it was necessary, and the ease in which he could swallow his pride was much of the reason why Petyr found himself in the position he sat in today.

Mace Tyrell stuttered. "I...don't...are you...suggesting that we have the power to...depose the Queen?"

"It's not a suggestion, it's a fact."

"Such an action would be unprecedented," the Archmaester argued.

"Aye," Ser Courtnay said, glaring angrily at their newest colleague, "I agree with you, Baelish. I don't care for this man's fancy words, if it smells like treason, it is."

"Surely such talk cannot augur well for the country," Petyr argued, slamming vehemently one palm against the table. "You speak of history, Lord Randyll, of the precedents set by the Council of two hundred years ago. Yet, what precedent will we set for centuries to come, if it can be said that any Regency Council is free to act and uncrown the very crown they are supposed to serve and protect?"

"Who said anything about uncrowning the girl?"

This caught the attention of Mace Tyrell, though Lord Kevan merely listened impassively. It was true, Randyll Tarly was obviously no idiot, but Petyr had never figured him to be so knowledgeable, or opinionated, on matters of laws or history. Which merely meant that his ideas came not from his own mind, but the Spider's. Good.

"You're suggesting a union with Rhaegar," Kevan whispered from across the table. Kevan was clever, like most Lannisters. He'd figured this out on his own, without needing to conspire with the court across the Narrow Sea. Of course, Petyr had known he would be amenable to the idea, which was why he'd convinced them to appoint Kevan to the Regency Council in Jon Arryn's vacated seat in the first place. With Cat and Stannis's passing, it would seem that the Regency Council of the Queen currently present in King's Landing consisted now only of men whose loyalties to Her Grace and her dynasty were questionable at best.

"The girl had agreed to marry a Targaryen anyway," Randyll said dismissively, "who cares which dragonspawn she marries, except better for us and the kingdoms, the better man, with the better claim."

No one protested the idea immediately, not even Ser Courtnay, or the Archmaester, because Randyll Tarly was right...such a manner of discussion could be interpreted as falling just short of outright treason.

"Do you think," Mace finally asked after they all paused to contemplate the idea, even Petyr in pretense, "do you think that Rhaegar Targaryen can appease the High Sparrow?"

"His name can," Kevan answered. "I've a raven from one of my own...Leo Lefford was in Oldtown, arranging for the marriage of one of his daughters to a Hightower boy. He went to the Citadel, and read with his own eyes the diary of the Mad King's High Septon, the words written by his hands, in the same script as the rest of the diary. He married Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, willingly, one would presume, I doubt such a man would force an innocent girl's hand in the manner. And Elia Martell's marriage to the Prince annulled."

"You trust this, my lord," Petyr questioned, playing his role as Sansa's defender to the very last. "What kind of High Septon can find basis to annul marriage between a Prince and a Princess in her own right, when she's borne him two children already?"

"It's a bit odd," Randyll admitted, "to be sure. But Targaryens have been known to wed more than one." He looked to Kevan. "Clearly, if we are to offer terms with Rhaegar, we'll have to set our own terms. No incest, no polygamy, no Targaryen exceptionalism, they'll rule and behave in accordance to the laws of the Faith, same as all of us."

"If this is indeed true," he heard Mace muttering. "I fought for Rhaegar. I disclaimed him after the rebellion, and thought I was justified in doing so...because if the man did defoul the maiden Lyanna...yet...if those were all lies...spread just for the sake of justifying Robert's envy and Stark family pride...well...we owe that man an apology...a debt, the entire realm does."

It was obvious that the man had been long troubled now by these rumors from the Citadel, now apparently confirmed by Kevan Lannister.

"So," Kevan continued matter of factly, "if the Council agrees to end the Queen's betrothal to Viserys...if we thus invite Rhaegar to the capital to take his brother's place as Sansa Stark's husband...I will presume that he will take the title of King entirely, rather than King Consort?"

"He will sit on the Iron Throne," Randyll agreed, "his Queen faithfully and loyally by his side."

"I must protest," Petyr said, rising from his seat.

"Protest all you want," Randyll rebutted him. "You don't sit on the Regency Council, you don't get a say in this. You may merely counsel us, and I believe we will reject your counsel, as we have every right to do." He looked to Mace. "Are we three in agreement?"

The Lord of Highgarden sighed. Grudges as he may hold against the Starks for denying him a royal marriage, regret he may harbor for betraying and unintentionally defaming the dragon prince, Mace Tyrell was not a man whose loyalties changed easily, part of the reason he had fought for the Mad King in the first place. But then, they did change, after the fact, which meant they could change again.

"I'm a soldier," Randyll pressed, when his liege lord did not speak. "I'm good at war. But I don't want to fight wars for the rest of my life. Neither do you. We need to bring a permanent peace to the realm, so that your children and mine can marry and bear issue and carry on our legacies...not die fighting for a girl who can't even lift up her own sword."

"What is this," Petyr continued protesting, his voice rising to a shrill. "Do you presume now to dictate terms to the very Crown you serve? To begin and end dynasties, just three men sitting at a table, against the will of your Queen?"

"Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn were a Great Council of two, who presumed to crown a King and then a Queen on behalf of all Seven Kingdoms," Kevan replied, his voice rising, signifying his growing impatience with Petyr's defiance. Good. Let them remember my protests, let the Archmaester note them in his records. "I'd say three is an improvement, this time around."

"The Wolf King was a noble experiment, I'll admit," Randyll said, "the girl a foolish one. If such a venture succeeds, then I say good, let it be. But if it's proven a failure, then let's not let the memory of dead men hold us back from doing what's needed." He looked to Ser Courtnay. "Will you defy us, Lord Commander? My men are posted outside these very halls, as are Lord Kevan's, as are Lord Mace's. The whitecloaks may be more skilled with a sword, but our men outnumber yours, and without our men, there'd be no city, much less Queen or Queensguard. But none of this is necessary, lest I remind you, we three on the Regency Council hold the full power of the Crown, and our actions are made, entirely within the bounds of the law, out of loyalty to Queen Sansa, for her sake, so that she may with any luck, keep her head and grow to an old age. Unlike her mother, whom your men failed to protect."

"Lest you believe we do this out of selfishness," Kevan added, lying through his teeth, Petyr thought, "our joined powers as sovereigns in the Crown's name ends the moment Rhaegar sits on the Iron Throne."

A man like Courtnay Penrose was loyal, and fierce, much like his former liege lord Stannis. But he had none of that man's tenacity, much less decades of experience in political matters, not against men like Kevan Lannister, or a man so well trained as Randyll Tarly.

"I serve," Courtnay relented, bowing.

"Good," Randyll agreed. He then looked ominously at Petyr. "I don't doubt Lord Baelish's intentions are true. But they are ill advised, and not suitable for the moment. Ser Courtnay, I ask you to escort the Lord Hand to his tower, and ensure that he does not leave it. Once Rhaegar arrives, he can decide whether to keep his services as Hand, or find another."

Are you hoping it will be yourself?

This was not good. Not that he hadn't realized the possibility of a hostile move against him, it was his fault, Petyr could admit, he played his hand for the Queen too strenuously. But Petyr Baelish played the long game whereas men like Tarly and Kevan played for the immediate horizon, and if anything, his confinement, though a setback, was one he could overcome, and ought further help him down the line.

"What about the North," Petyr shouted frantically, attempting one last desperate plea for the sake of his Queen. "Surely Benjen Stark will not stand for this, if Queen Sansa does not wish to marry Rhaegar! And Edmure Tully's men are already marching on the capital..."

"Don't lie, Baelish," Kevan scoffed contemptuously. He explained to Randyll. "It's a bluff. He knows as well as I the Lord Edmure's difficulties in convincing men of the Faith to march with him, after the Sept was destroyed."

"As for the North," Randyll said thoughtfully, "Lady Cersei and her children are ensconced in the Crownlands, I believe?"

"At Sow's Horn, yes," Kevan replied.

"Good. I'll send a squadron of men to accompany them to the capital. Benjen Stark will not move against us, not with most of his family in our hands."

"This is treason," Petyr finally screamed, rather hysterically, as the whitecloaks led him forcibly out of the council room. "I will not stand for it, someone warn the Queen..."

Cat's death was the worst setback. Though he would've had to marry Lysa anyway, once he ushered the Queen and her family safely into the Vale, now he'd have no reason not to arrange for the ghastly woman's death as soon as the opportunity presented itself. And ultimately while his heart always belonged to Cat, Catelyn's daughter was the future, his future, that had never been in doubt. And soon he would be her future, she'd come to see that, once he won back for her her rightful Throne atop the Seven Kingdoms, saving her from the horrible men who'd betrayed her and ripped away her family, her crown so cruelly.


Tyrion

"To be honest, I'd expected worse out of captivity, if I didn't fear for the worst for your sister." He stole a look at the guards, who stood nearby as usual, with vacant, though constantly attentive stares. "What's the name of the bastard girl again? The short one, with the short hair? And the daggers? I do think she likes me."

"Keep getting fat on your wine, Half Man," Arya said, munching on a small piece of steak as they sat in utter and sheer boredom. There wasn't much to do in Sunspear, except sleep, drink, and eat. And fuck, for Tyrion at least. There'd been no shortage of attendants willing to share his bed at night, a transparent attempt by Doran Martell to keep his senses dull, but like with their wine and food, there was no sense in turning down the most basic of life's necessities.

"Do you really think you'll make a difference? One girl, and one sword, here, or in King's Landing?"

"I'm a Princess of the blood, Lord Tyrion," Arya replied defiantly. "Men are sworn to follow my word in all seven kingdoms."

"Not this one, so it would seem."

"Well, when we escape this one."

"No need for escape, my good friends."

They both jumped, first startled, and then embarrassed, to have been caught off guard by a crippled man.

"And the one you speak of is Tyene, I believe," Doran Martell said, seated in his chair by the doorway. "Though I fear she feels for you contempt at best, Half Man."

"Prince Doran," Tyrion bowed mockingly. "Are you here to finally set us free? Or pray tell us, at least, any news from the capital, which I'm sure your very well informed of."

Half Man and Princess exchanged a worried look at the thought.

"I'll tell you, Lord Tyrion, the truth of the matter."

"Which is," Arya interrupted, insistent on not being ignored.

"I've been betrayed," Doran remarked gravely.

Tyrion frowned. "By Rhaegar?"

"By everyone." Rather than speak further, the Prince ordered them. "Come."

Quickly, his guards were in the room, and as with all their movements in the castle, they walked securely escorted by a dozen of the Martell spearmen, led by the big Norvoshi, as always. This time they walked for longer, through hallways and open squares they'd never been allowed through before. Then down a side tower, guarded carefully by another half dozen soldiers. The Prince did not speak the entire time, and though Tyrion did fear that perhaps his patience had waned, or Rhaegar's, and the hour of their execution was at hand, something told him that they were going to live. The girl did not seem overly concerned either, because Tyrion would have expected her to claw tooth and nail for her life. Hells, they allowed her to keep her little sword even now, certainly not a convenient object to give someone who was about to die.

Finally, they arrived at a yet another wonderful garden, where they saw a short woman with dark hair crouched next to a fountain, the hum of her elegant voice echoing towards them as she appeared to whisper to the waters themselves. A brilliant tiara of diamonds and silver adorned her hair, and Tyrion guessed at whom they were about to meet.

"Princess Arianne?"

Doran nodded, Hotah setting his wheelchair at a stop several lengths away from his daughter. It had been odd, that they'd never met the spurned love of Robb Stark until now, though Tyrion had figured it was to keep the girl away from Arya, the late Prince's sister an unsettling reminder of past grudges. Prince Quentyn did at least made a shallow attempt at courtship, though Tyrion saw that his appearance of coldness during the admittedly farcical rituals covered up a deeper sense of shyness innate in the young man.

Hearing their voices, the beautiful daughter of their traitor host rose, and both Tyrion and Arya nearly rubbed their eyes at what her body had concealed behind her beforehand...a small child, a boy, about four years in age. His complexion was dark, though not as tan as the Martells or most other Dornishmen, and Tyrion thought he could discern the vaguest tints of red running through his amply flowing mane, dark brown in color.

"And her son by Robb Stark," Doran added, confirming his suspicions. "Joffrey Sand...once legitimized, the true heir to the Seven Kingdoms."