Daenerys
The Red Keep stood entirely still, all of the vast castle mourning knowingly, or unknowingly, the bloody night when the Queen had given birth to her first daughter. Every corridor and room, every nook and cranny seemed stuck in the most excruciating state of sobriety, not a drop of wine was seen consumed from the kitchens, to the King's chambers, or the Tower of the Hand. Nor did Daenerys seek out any celebrations, comfort, or comradeship in the meantime, but did she allow herself to cry either, not since that unspeakable first night.
But all things arrive at their eventual endings, even the worst of horrors. Her procession arranged, Daenerys did not believe it appropriate to depart without visiting first the chambers of the Queen, particularly since Lewyn had bequeathed her something even she did not feel herself privy or worthy to read, without the girl's permission.
"You loved Trystane," the sad woman before her began reading, as pale as the melting winter's snow atop the roofs of Flea Bottom. "I did too. Do not blame yourself. Trystane's vows were his, not yours, and he made his choices."
The Queen ceased her reading. There was more, Daenerys knew, but she knew better than to further push the poor girl. If there was something Ser Lewyn meant for her to read that Sansa did not wish shared, then that was entirely her prerogative, no one else's.
She's above my pity. I could have done something, I could have said something. But I didn't.
After several deep breaths, the Queen continued.
"But the fault is mine, all mine. The affair was known, by myself, by others, before your daughter was conceived. I could have done more to protect my family, my nephew, my beloved kin. That's what I thought I was doing, but my actions proved opposite. For that, my regrets are eternal."
Eyes downcast, the Queen set the piece of paper aside. It was the last legacy Lewyn would leave behind, but Daenerys did not rush to take back the letter as it fell to the floor.
"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered quietly. "You were close to him, weren't you? You can read it if you want, if you haven't already…"
"It was meant for you. I did not open it, I swear it."
The poor girl, apologizing to me. I've suffered too, but nothing close to her.
My dear Lyonel. What happened that night, I'll never allow to happen to you, I swear to you.
"I hate to leave," Daenerys said, standing alone inside the Queen's chambers. She'd never felt more uncomfortable in her life, yet Daenerys felt it her duty to bear the burden, because her suffering was trivial compared to Sansa's. "For Lyonel…with…everything that's happened, you must understand."
"I do," the Queen replied with no emotion at all.
"I wish you could come with me to Casterly Rock," Daenerys continued. She should leave now, yet she felt herself unable to step away from her brother's young wife. "It's not anything special, but it's a change, and a change may help you fare, I'd have hoped. I asked the King, and his Hand, but they would not allow it."
Who are you trying to convince, except to yourself, to absolve yourself.
The Queen's mouth strained to smile at her, the saddest smile Daenerys had ever seen in her entire life.
"I thank you for your kindness, Princess, I really do." The Queen turned away, staring to the plainest piece of wall in her room, where she'd been gazing towards when Daenerys first entered, and she didn't know whether the Queen was awake or asleep. Or dead.
It all meant nothing, Daenerys realized. She'd done everything she could for the girl, knowing her brothers, knowing the crimes of her family. Yet, what did it matter, just what did all her small acts of kindness amount to in the end?
Nothing.
"I hope the next time we see each other, it'll be in circumstances more favorable."
"I don't think we'll see each other again," Sansa replied, as plainly as stating a fact, that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. "I don't expect to step foot outside this castle ever…I don't expect I'll live much longer after this."
Can I trust her?
More than most, when it comes to Rhaegar.
He's a monster. And the two of us know this better than anyone else, alive or dead.
"They'll find justice," Daenerys continued. Her voice should have been lowered to a whisper, but to the contrary, the king's sister felt the greatest thrill undulating through her body, speaking truth were truth was merited, all veneer finally blown away to dust. "Your brothers. Your daughter. Prince Trystane. I…I don't know how…but whatever I can do, I will do it, I promise you, Sansa."
You don't need my pity. But you deserve my help.
I'll have my justice for Lewyn too.
For the first time since that horrible night, the Queen's eyes came alive. Contrasting them now to how they looked before, Daenerys could only wonder at her despair, and how close she had been to...doing something that she could not undo. That she may still do.
"If you want to help me..."
"I do."
"...then tell the truth."
"I will," Daenerys swore. By the old Gods and the new. By the blood of her ancestors. So that she may one day spill the blood of her brothers. "When Lyonel is safe in Casterly Rock, I will tell all the lords of what horrors transpired here, all the injustices of my brother's...madness."
It was true. Rhaegar was mad.
Or was he simply a horrible person? Was it madness, or evil, that consumed him all his life, as he plotted in Essos, while raising her, to murder another girl's father and tear down her entire world and inheritance. All Daenerys could be certain of now was her past blindness.
No. I've known. In my heart I've known for some time.
"You don't understand," Sansa replied, her eyes wraith like. Bending her neck towards her unnaturally, Daenerys thought she saw in her a certain mad glee when she spoke. "The actual truth. The whole truth. How Rhaegar has always served the fire God of Essos all his life, how you remembered all this as a child growing up with him. The...the horrible rituals he forced you to bear witness to, he and his Spider, who came to him as an acolyte of the red god along with the High Priestess of Volantis, who came herself to the Red Keep to pay tribute to her servant. How he plotted to destroy the Faith of the Andals. From without, by setting alight nearly every single Septon in the Great Sept's destruction. Or from within, with men like the High Sparrow, who seek to destroy the faith by undermining it with hypocrisy and heresy."
"Yes," Daenerys replied, almost in a trance. "You're right. I do remember." A smile crept up upon her face, and the Queen returned her bitter smile. "I remember the High Sparrow, coming to us in Volantis, to pay tribute to his master Rhaegar. The horrible things he must have charged him with...this terrible secret which has burdened my heart for so long...it's no wonder I sought my escape, though I felt duty bound to return in the end."
"May you remain burdened no longer," Sansa proclaimed coldly, a Queen charging her subject. "May all the lords of Westeros know of this truth, from the King's own sister bore witness to with eyes once pure."
"They will, I promise you."
"Don't promise it to me," the girl replied sadly, "I won't live to see it. Promise it to my daughter, an innocent soul taken from this cruel world."
"I promise her too." And for Lewyn, the life he wasted keeping to my brother until the day he could bear it no longer. "But I hope you're wrong," Daenerys continued, before she departed this girl, perhaps forever. "Your Grace. I do hope to see you again, so that we may one day share in the fruits of the truth."
Meryn
He was tired. He was cold. He needed to get his balls off, the Gods knew he hadn't had any relief since the bitch's birthing room that night, with the Kingsguard reduced to four now, two dead, and the idiot Balon Swann confined to the Black Cells for the rest of his life, if he were lucky. A trip to the brothel was what he needed, the one on the other side of Flea Bottom which knew exactly how to cater him.
"Ser Meryn," Courtnay Penrose nodded, as he approached the former Lord Commander by the Queen's doorway.
"Get some rest, man."
What honor and glory is this, to protect some truculent child. Better Rhaegar had ordered her killed too, along with her treasonous seed.
The door was ajar, and Meryn could not but help peek inside as he stood into position. The girl lay in her bed, her back to him. Naked, no blankets laying upon her, her body bare for all the world to see.
"Your Grace?" Meryn stepped into the room. It wouldn't hurt to look. He wasn't an idiot like the welp Trystane, he wasn't going to do anything but have himself a look. After all, it was his duty, wasn't it, to see to the Queen's condition?
There was no response. The girl lay deathly still on her bed, and as Meryn drew closer, he half expected to see slit wrists and blood red sheets on the other side. He hoped it, actually. The Queen was a bit old, compared to the ones he preferred, but it would not hurt to get himself a feel or two, so long as no one could accuse him of it afterwards.
"Are you asleep, Your Grace?"
Still silence. He stood practically atop her now, he could smell her, by the Gods, she certainly didn't smell dead. Perhaps the girl had fallen in a trance, a mercy the slut did not deserve, Meryn figured, considering her wretched impudence.
"Your Grace...are you alive," he asked, barely concealing his scoff. Leaning down towards the girl, he took in the sight of her bare breasts beneath her closed eyes.
And a knife, sharp and glistening. Suddenly, the girl whirled to life, and the last thing Meryn saw, aside from her vengeful expression, was the tip of the blade aiming for his left eye.
Varys
He went to seek her out, beside his better judgment. The Spider would remain loyal to Rhaegar, until the day he wasn't. His loyalties did not lie with the Sansa Stark. They never had and, considering the circumstances, they never would. But Varys was not a monster, and only a monster would not sympathize with the girl after the events of that awful night. He could also admit to himself that there was basic need in his heart, against his better judgment, to let her know that he never intended for her to suffer so, that he did not derive glee from the fact, despite how much of her suffering, Varys could admit to himself, had been inflicted by his own actions.
Perhaps there was some way he could assure her regarding her son. She would never rule again, that was clear. Rhaegar's time may fast be coming to an end, though this secret treason which he bore in his heart he could not confess to her. But a new day would approach, the era of Baelor II Targaryen, and Varys had vowed ever since that awful night, and probably some time before that, if he could be honest with himself, that he would see personally to the fact that the son of Sansa Stark would be remembered in the eyes of the realm the same or better as the likes of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. If only there was some way for him to convey this determination the girl, without her realization of the treason he intended. Nor did he wish to spread within her heart false hope, that his loyalties would be transferred to her out of pity, because that was definitively not be the case.
"Your Grace?"
Her door was ajar. It was strange, there was no whitecloak guarding it. For a second his heart fluttered in panic, already pondering as fast as he could the implications of the Queen's escape, before he saw her naked form gracing her bed. And a man knelt beside her, head lying behind her rear upon the sheets. From his white cloak, and his dark hair, Varys could tell it was Ser Meryn Trant.
Gods, was the boy's mad lust infectious?
Then he saw the blood dripping onto the floor, and drops of it spreading upon the bedsheets. The Queen lay on the other side of her bed, clean white linen separating her body from the massacre, and it was from this that Varys could tell that it was not the Queen's blood which had been shed.
"Your Grace, what have you done?"
There was no response. She lay deathly still upon her bed, and Varys wondered whether she'd taken her own life afterwards. Approaching the bed cautiously, he bent down by the body of Ser Meryn, bending his head to make sure that the deceased was indeed the whitecloak with the...predilections. Then, before he could react, he heard a flutter from the bed, saw the bare skin of the Queen leaping back to life, and felt the terrible pain of the blade sticking through the front of his neck.
Sansa
The eunuch collapsed onto the floor, gasping, unable to scream, and stepping around the bodies, carefully to avoid touching their blood with her feet, Sansa returned to her place in her bed, crouched towards her window and opposite her door in a fetal position, holding her now very bloodstained knife delicately, as if it were her departed daughter. The dead kingsguard's head continued to violate her space and sanctity even in death, rested against the edge of her bed, but Sansa did not bother, it was not worth it, to touch a dead man's head with her own fingers.
The Queen continued her waiting, whilst she listened to the Spider choking through his last death throes. She would be lying to herself if she said she did not care who was to step next into the room. It would be an unprecedented accomplishment, in her mind, to slaughter what remained of Rhaegar's Kingsguard. But it was the broken king himself whose blood she wished to shed the most. And the traitor Tarly. And the butcher Connington, who first killed her father, and then the man she loved. Hells, were the Gods kind, they'd give her the entirety of Rhaegar's Small Council too. But the Gods were not kind, so Sansa did not illusion herself with the idea that she could stick this knife into every man and woman who had betrayed her. She could only be satisfied with taking as many as she could, before they killed her.
A shrill scream echoed through her chambers, and Sansa heard the clang of a tray dropping against the floor. It was Alysanne, she realized, the youngest of the Bracken daughters, who had come to bring her breakfast, juice and sausages now spilled upon the ground. Instinctively she moved, as she did the others, baring her knife at the girl, though the handmaiden stood further from her than the others had when she'd stabbed them. The girl froze in shock, and quickly Sansa had her wrist in her hand. Her other hand held the knife, but as she began plunging it downwards, she saw the sheer horror and fright in the girl's face, her jaw shaking and quivering, tears coming from her eyes.
Without another word or further acknowledgement, Sansa released her wrists, and walked calmly back upon her bed, lying down as she did before. Hearing footsteps clambering desperately away from her and down the corridor, she knew that her game, brief as it was, was up, that no longer would they approach her blind and unknowing. So be it, that fact alone was not enough to stop her.
Soon, she drifted off into a light sleep. Thankfully, dreams did not plague her this time, though it was possible that she had not slept long enough to dream, because she was soon awakened by the clamor.
"By the Gods, the Bracken girl wasn't lying..."
"The whore, she really did it..."
It was Connington, and Ser Courtnay Penrose. Who once served her as Lord Commander of her Queensguard. Who surrendered to Rhaegar, lost his position, then regained it through the deaths of Trystane and Lewyn. Though her body felt impossibly heavy, Sansa willed herself to rise, standing naked as the day she was born, knife in her hand, ready to strike, to finish this last fight win or lose, except losing was certain in the end.
"Put the knife down, Your Grace," Courtnay said cautiously.
"Don't be stupid, girl," Connington added gratuitously, ready to draw her father's sword.
No one blinked. She saw there remained dried blood on her hand and wrist. Whether it was the Spider's or Meryn Trants, she could not tell, or care. Then she flung herself at the two men. Then she felt pain wreaking through her body, as she found herself thrown to the floor, landing into the puddle of blood next to Varys's body. Ser Courtnay had not drawn his sword at all, he'd merely tackled her, pinning both her wrists upon the ground, even as she continued flailing at him with her knife. The blade glanced against his arm, she'd drawn blood, but the man didn't flinch.
A vicious kick from Connington knocked the blade out of her fingers. The pain did not bother her, she'd known pain, she'd given birth twice, and now it seemed the entirety of her life. Her last and precious weapon taken away from her, Sansa could do nothing but scream.
"Kill me! Just kill me, and get it over with!"
"Calm down, Your Grace," Courtnay yelled back, panting as he spoke.
"I won't," Sansa shouted. "I'll fight you, I'll kill every one of you, I won't rest, not until you kill me!"
A heavy blow struck her face, and for a moment she almost fainted. It had been Connington's fist, the man standing above her now, her father's sword by his side, glaring down at her with evident contempt and disgust.
"You'll behave, girl," he ordered.
"Or what? Or you'll kill me? Please, I beg of you, spare me one mercy for once!"
Her legs kicked upwards at Ser Courtnay, shins banging uselessly against his armor, the infernal man having taken care to not place his groin within reach of her feet. Then another heavy pain at the side of her head. This time Connington had kicked her instead.
"Stop it, Connington, you're not helping!"
"She's gone mad," the red haired man rebutted, "what else is there to do?"
"Enough!"
It was the king, who'd arrived, wheeled in by Boros Blount. His voice carried nobly, as if he came a chivalrous knight coming to her rescue. Sansa remembered the last time she'd heard him speak.
"Kill her. Kill the boy. Kill her brothers."
He still thinks himself an Arthur Dayne, even when he's ordering the massacre of children.
"Can you control her," Rhaegar asked, eyes refusing to meet hers.
"I can," Courtnay affirmed, even as she still writhed her body violently under his grip. "She'll tire herself out."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Rhaegar addressing Boros. "Find some rope, and bind her hands. We'll find smaller chambers for my wife. She is not to be left alone for a second, day or night. The Kingsguard will be posted within her chambers, eyes will remain upon her day and night."
Though she continued to struggle, in her heart of hearts Sansa knew that it was over. This had been her last war, and she'd lost, she couldn't even die successfully.
The Hand
"This is a disaster without precedent."
The Hand to the King paced the room, his head awash in worry. Powerful as he may be, Randyll Tarly knew he was but one man, one man could not place himself everywhere all at once inside the Red Keep, much less throughout all Seven Kingdoms. Yet, it seemed inevitable that disaster struck wherever he was not, even if he sat or slept merely half a hallway away.
"We'll need to recruit new Kingsguards, for one," Connington scoffed forlornly in a corner.
"Ones better than Meryn Trant for sure," Tarly replied. "Killed by a girl, what a disgrace."
What a fucking disgrace.
"Now we're blinded too," Courtnay Penrose conceded, having rejoined the Small Council after the death of Lewyn Martell, at the same time the man's predecessor and successor as Lord Commander. "I don't know who'll be the next Master of Whispers, but I doubt he'd be able to fit the shoes of the eunuch. Not overnight, anyhow."
"Three Kingsguard dead," Tarly muttered unhappily, "one disgraced. We've lost two members of the Small Council, and we have to handle a Queen who's all but gone mad. The mob will think us unlucky, or fools, at best."
To be fair, Sansa Stark's spirit was admirable, if were it weren't for the fact that it was so aggravating, and so threatening to the realm. The girl needed to learn her place.
"The girl needs to learn her place," Connington said, giving voice to what he'd been just thinking.
"How can we expect her to," Randyll asked. "The fools placed a crown on her head and let the child play at sitting atop the Iron Throne. She's never truly bent the knee to Rhaegar, not in her heart."
"I don't think she'll ever submit," Courtnay admitted, fingers carefully mending to one wrist, where the girl had bitten him before she'd been finally subdued. "I wouldn't, were I her."
The King spoke. "You submitted to me, didn't you?"
A chagrined smirk on the man's face, carrying the shame of his defeat. "It was the law, Your Grace. I know my duty, I do it, like it or not."
It was an interesting admission, though Randyll had suspected for some time. No man would ever be satisfied with failure, though he could concede that Ser Courtnay had handled it as much grace as any man could. But he would have to be watched, Randyll noted in his head, so that he would never give in to his temptations.
"The girl needs to die," Connington said from the corner. They all turned in his direction at the end of the table. "We can't have the Queen herself trying her damned best to undermine us at every opportunity. Gods, she may actually succeed one time, given enough tries."
It had been Connington who'd said the words, but doubtlessly they'd all been thinking it. It was the smallest of the Small Councils, and Randyll doubted the Lord of Griffin's Roost would've ever said the words with softer men such as Tyrell or even Kevan Lannister present in the room. Nor would he himself have allowed it as Hand, longtime friend of Rhaegar's or not Jon was, for discretion's sake. There was Ser Courtnay too, he would prefer him not participate in such discussions, but then the man had borne witness to the girl's madness with his own eyes, hadn't he?
"What are we to do," Courtnay asked skeptically. "Execute her in a public square, before half a million people in King's Landing? They'll love us for that, once they've heard we've killed her brothers too."
So he wasn't entirely averse to the necessity, Randyll thought.
"That wasn't my intention," Rhaegar defended.
Wasn't it? He hadn't been there the night to hear what had transpired, but every account given him seemed to indicate otherwise.
"The crown can't afford any more embarrassment," Rhaegar continued. "No one is to know of the deaths the Stark bo...men."
At least he was speaking more. Depending on the circumstances, Randyll would prefer an active king than not, at least for appearances' sake, so long as it didn't interfere with his work.
"I'm afraid it's too late, Your Grace."
The king turned his purple eyes towards his Hand. Dangerously so, Randyll realized.
"What do you mean, Lord Tarly?"
He coughed uneasily, but the truth had to be told to the King. "I'm afraid I overheard the Lady Margaery and Barbara Bracken discussing...ahem, some malicious gossip this morning. They tried to keep quiet, once they saw me. I asked them from whom they heard, they said it was...your sister, Your Grace."
"Daenerys," Rhaegar asked, his face twisted in disbelief. "I'd sworn her to secrecy."
How to put this delicately?
"I don't think she means any harm. But the girl saw what happened that night. I don't doubt she's been strongly affected. Things like...vows, and sworn oaths mean less to women, once they're shaken and carried away by their own emotions."
"We need to kill the Poole girl too," Connington said. "She's a pain, she won't submit either, she'll continue to be trouble, I swear it."
"We shouldn't," Rhaegar protested. "Her crime was the moon tea, nothing else." It seemed an interesting change for once, perhaps Rhaegar regretted already his...outbursts, from that night, though Randyll knew the man would never admit it as such. "I know of men in Lys. We can send her there, she can keep to the brothels..."
Or not. This seemed excessive, even from a Targaryen. It was one thing to sell a serving girl, another for a highborn lady. Jeyne Poole was a northerner, and Randyll fully intended to bring the North fully to heel one day. But he didn't doubt that Rhaegar would forget soon this troubling detail. He could delay first, then arrange for her to be sent to Horn Hill afterwards.
"We can't kill the Queen here," Rhaegar whispered, returning to the main subject at hand. At first, he thought the King was speaking of his own sister, who'd already departed days before to Casterly Rock, before realizing that he was speaking of Sansa Stark. For once, his mind was on the right path. It was the encouraging, this had been Rhaegar's most lucid council attendance in some time.
"No we can't," Tarly agreed, clearly pleasing his king with his counsel. "It might be the deathblow to the Crown, after everyone else we've lost."
"And there's too many eyes," Rhaegar whispered, more to himself. "Too many...troubling...eyes...too many whispers..."
"Send her to Griffin's Roost," Connington suggested. "I'll have it done there, wait a few years, if need be...tell everyone she took her own life. It's not entirely untrue, either, she was beggin' for us to kill her."
The idea had some merit to it, Randyll realized.
"...or arrange to have bandits attack their procession in progress," Connington continued, thinking out loud.
"Can't have that," Tarly rebutted. "A King who can't protect his Queen from banditry is an equal embarrassment." The dim shadow of an idea crept into his mind. "Unless..."
"Unless what," Rhaegar demanded eagerly. So it would seem the King had already moved on, in his mind, in his heart, from his second wife. Or third, Randyll corrected himself, remembering the King's insistence that he'd properly wedded Lyanna Stark before giving her a child. He wondered who it would be next time. He wouldn't allow Talla, it wasn't worth it. Perhaps a Hightower? He tried remembering which ones would still be available. The eldest was betrothed he knew to one of the Redwyne twins, Horas, Randyll recalled, the heir. No matter, that was a headache for another day.
The Hand turned to the Lord Commander. "With all due respect, Ser Courtnay, Boros Blount is a waste. I know you're shorthanded already. Men like Ser Lewyn are irreplaceable, obviously. But anyone can fill in Blount's shoes."
And Trant's. That had been his mistake, to throw a sop at the Stormlands and Lord Renly, after Stannis's death.
"What are you saying, Lord Tarly?"
"There's a better way for a man like Boros to serve his King," Randyll continued, as the idea further formed his shape. "If we're going to lose a Queen who's sat on the Iron Throne, then at least let us make use of it. You, Ser Courtnay, can accompany the girl and Ser Boros to Griffin's Roost. Give orders to him to execute the girl, make sure you're alone, no one else overhears. Then, kill him, return to King's Landing, and tell your story."
Seeing Ser Courtnay fumbling his eyebrows in confusion and about to interject, Randyll Tarly turned to the King and continued his idea, more and more given shape by the second.
"The story we'll tell, Your Grace, is that Boros Blount has fallen in with the Sparrows. He screamed his allegiance and devotion to the High Sparrow, when he struck down the Queen for her unfaithfulness. Then he swore further allegiance as he lay dying by Ser Courtnay's sword."
"I don't understand," Rhaegar said. He was not the only one, but Randyll saw a gleam of realization in the eyes of Connington.
"By the Gods, Tarly, you're brilliant." This time, it was the Master of War who addressed Rhaegar on his behalf. "We can use the Queen's death to rid ourselves of the High Sparrow, purge all the maniacs following him from the capital, end this insanity once and for all."
"Will the people like it," Rhaegar asked.
Did he discard Lyanna in his mind so easily? Elia Martell, he already knew the answer, and could predict the former.
"Strike down a Queen and sworn brother," Courtnay asked indignantly. "What would you have us become, Tarly?"
Penrose was the key to the plan, Randyll knew. The man's loyalty may not lie entirely with them, but he knew his duty. He had to, there was no other choice.
"On behalf of your King, Lord Commander. On behalf of the realm, and your sworn duty. Do you understand, Ser Courtnay?"
He did not allow the man to answer, because the answer should have been self evident. Randyll switched his attentions back to the broken dragon.
"To be honest, Your Grace, the Sparrows are demanding. Even the masses have only so much tolerance for...zealotry. Especially given power and affirmed by the Crown." He looked further to Connington. "With any luck...given time, we can blame some of the...incidents here on the Sparrows too, once they're already discredited, we'll put the nail in their coffin. It'll be disgrace to the Crown...but we're disgraced enough anyway, so we might as well make use of it, because a disgrace we choose will be preferable to other disgraces we cannot control. Cutting our losses will be difficult, but...we'll feel lighter afterwards, no matter the pain."
Rhaegar turned to his Lord Commander without further hesitation. "Will you do it, Ser Penrose?"
It was the easiest order Randyll had ever heard given.
"I swore my first vows to Queen Sansa," Courtnay muttered unhappily. "But then I sworn may vows to King Rhaegar, before the Gods and the laws of all of Westeros. And by all the laws of Gods and men, the King is seated before the Queen. I will do my duty, Your Grace."
It was not the most eager acceptance, but Randyll felt he could actually trust it more, because the words were not spoken out of false sincerity.
"Good," the King's Hand replied. "It's a distasteful business, but it's for the good of the realm, we all know this."
All the heads in the room nodded in agreement. He had no problems birthing the idea, giving voice to it. But that didn't mean Randyll Tarly felt good about what he was about to wring forth. His memory shifted to one of his more reputed predecessors, Aerys's Hand Tywin, now languishing at the Wall. Was this how the old lion felt, Randyll wondered, when he'd drowned the Castameres, or ordered the slaughter of Elia Martell's children?
He could only hope that he would not meet the same fate. A man could only stand on the losing side of a war so many times, before falling himself.
Sansa
No one spoke to her. No one met her eyes. Her wheelhouse was a prison worse than her cell in the Red Keep. The nights Boros Blount stood guard over her, he more leered at her than anything else, if he didn't look her in the eye, he'd sure looked her over every other part of her body, and Sansa knew that he may do worse, if it weren't for the presence of Courtnay Penrose. Not that shielding her from further rape spared the traitor in her mind, she'd take what comfort given to her freely now, the time for gratitude to men whose treasons were well beyond the pale were long come and gone.
Because even Ser Courtnay refused to look at her, Sansa could guess at what was to come. Then one cold morning, before the soldiers accompanying them had risen, she noticed, they led her away from her tent. Not towards her wheelhouse, but into the woods, towards a small clearing and a stump freshly cut.
"Are you going to kill me now?"
It was a relief, if she were honest.
"It'll be better this way," Courtnay muttered, looking down at the ground.
"You'll be remembered as a traitor," Sansa proclaimed with all the authority she had as the rightful Queen Regnant, her voice feeling refreshed after having not spoken for what seemed many fortnights now. "You'll be remembered as a Queenslayer, a villain, both of you, the basest of creatures ever born to a woman, do you hear me, do you hear your Queen?"
"Down, girl." A rough shove from behind her by Ser Boros, and Sansa fell to her knees, her eyes meeting the stump of the tree. It felt terrifying, and freeing, how easily she lay her head and neck against it.
So this is how it ends. This is the last thing I will see, this stump, and these horrible men.
"May the Gods curse you both," she found the words in her heart, placing all the weight of her soul upon this cut tree. In her mind, the stump was no different from the Godswood of the home of her father, it held more power than any of these false gods of the Sparrows. The Godswood carried power, the First Men believed, the men of the North still believed. If she believed strongly enough, perhaps their powers would carry even in this accursed corner of the continent. "May every man and woman who betrayed me be cursed, may their houses be scourged and wiped from the land, may their castles be burned to the ground, may their bodies be reduced to ash, may no memory of their names ever carry forward..."
"Are ye finished, girl?"
She could not see Ser Boros behind her, but Sansa imagined that he was laughing as he mocked her. Closing her eyes, she rested, and prepared herself for what was to come. She'd done all that she could. She'd failed, but at least she'd given all that she had.
What did father think, when he was about to die? Or Robb? What would they think of her now, her heart filled with hatred and curses on her dying day?
What right did they have to judge her, having been the ones to leave her in this predicament in the first place?
Despite her doubts, she wished fervently that it would be their faces, and her mother's, that she would see when it all came to an end. This thought gave her hope, for the first time in what felt a lifetime. Hearing the unsheathing of Boros's sword, a mirthful idea came into her mind, and Sansa couldn't help but giggle like a child, though she was about to die.
This makes Arya the true and rightful Queen of Westeros.
Good luck to you, sister. May you fare better in this than I, I know you will.
The Queen awaited the final blow.
The final blow never came. Instead she heard Boros Blount scream out in pain. When she reopened her eyes, and looked back at him, Sansa saw the tip of one arrow pierced fully through his chest. Another one flew, and struck him in the neck.
"Riders," Courtnay called, eyes widened. Immediately he grabbed her, and carried her over his body, away from the sound of approaching hooves and feet.
"Cease your arrows," someone shouted, "he has the Queen!"
He's not protecting me, she thought, he's using me as a shield.
Her head hung upside down, rocking against the man's white cloak, Sansa squinted her eyes, and saw a single rider in the approaching crowd upon his horse, and carrying a banner emblazoned by a crack of lightning.
The Lightning Lord!
"We're under attack," Courtnay proclaimed, as he stumbled with her back into their camp. Dropping her roughly onto the ground, Sansa struggled to her feet, as the enemy...no, her saviors, caught up to them. She recognized Beric Dondarrion, and the young Dayne boy, who'd grown much since she'd last seen him, and a giant man, no woman, that she recognized as the Lady Brienne of Tarth.
"Hold your arrows," Beric ordered, "careful not to hurt the Queen!"
The battle commenced, as the dozen or so men commanded by Courtnay ran from their tents, barely dressed yet ready to meet their attackers, swarming around her and forming a shield between her person and her rescuers. At once the lightning lord was crossing swords with Ser Courtnay, while Sansa watched amazement as the woman fighter take on three enemies at once.
Men began falling around her, bloodied on the ground. Some were Beric's. Some were Rhaegar's. Soon she could not tell which was which. More fighters swarmed in from either direction, though Sansa thought that Beric's men outnumbered theirs.
No. Not Beric's men. My men. They came here for me.
On one end of this rapidly developing battlefield she saw a sword aflame, as if by magic. In the same direction the woman knight continued cutting her way through the throng in her direction, nearly a dozen by now, Sansa thought. It was no longer Beric who engaged with Ser Courtnay, but the Dayne boy, and he was losing, Sansa realized. The boy was good, she'd watched him kill several men already, and he was quick to match and parry away each one of the older man's strikes, but Courtnay Penrose, a Lord Commander of Kingsguard, was proving ultimately stronger, and slowly advanced against the boy as his charge the Lord Beric fought off several attackers at once, unable to come to his squire's defense. Scrambling, Sansa ran to a dying man nearby, who still breathed even as he bled, and pried his muddy fingers off his sword.
Clutching the heavy, burdensome object with both her hands, she charged as fast as she could run at Ser Courtnay, straining every muscle in her body to lift the sword high and strong, and felt a sickening thud as the blade ran cleanly through the back of the neck of the Lord Commander, staining his white cloak with blood.
The boy, who'd just been fighting for his life, looked upon the scene in awe. Then he grabbed her by her arm, bloody sword and all, and led her away from the battle.
"Protect the Queen," Beric ordered as he continued to fight, concurring with his squire's flight. But the battle was already decided. She saw men running away, Courtnay's men, his death may have proven the last straw in their eyes. None of them paid she nor the Dayne boy any attention, determined as they were to save their own lives. With most of Rhaegar's men dispatched, she saw arrows flying forward, cutting down some of the deserters. Several of Beric's riders galloped by their side, cutting down the last of the stragglers. All this time Ned Dayne stood protectively in front of her by a tree, and they both watched in near reverential silence the deaths of the last of the traitors who'd accompanied her to what should have been her death.
No. It's not over yet. There's plenty more time for me to die, however long I might live.
They spoke little at first. Beric and his men all knelt and pledged their fealty to her upon the blood stained battleground, but there'd been no time for much else. They gave her a horse, and though her body felt weak, she forced herself to ride southwards as fast as she could along with the small band of men, and two women with them.
Finally they made camp many hours after the sun had set.
"Are we going to Storm's End," she asked Beric Dondarrion, practically a stranger to her, yet the man who'd just saved her life. "Or the Marches?"
"Is it true," Beric asked instead, "that Ser Trystane is dead?"
Why does he have to bring this up now?
"Killed by Jon Connington," Sansa answered, the hatred nearly swallowing her voice fully, "by the orders of Rhaegar."
Beric nodded. "We'd heard whispers of much turmoil in King's Landing," he said. He did not apologize for her loss. Did he know of the affair, did all the realm know? Did she truly care?
"Rumors of white cloaks riding through the Kingswood," Brienne picked up where Beric left off, "it couldn't have been a coincidence. We trailed your group for several days, to make sure it was really you, Your Grace. And to call forth as many men as we could."
"We were almost too late," Beric remarked regrettably.
"You weren't," Sansa replied, absolving them completely. It was all that mattered.
"Dorne," Brienne said suddenly, answering her earlier question, and Beric nodded in agreement.
"I trust you, Ned. You're a man now."
"I serve you, my lord." The young man with the pale blond hair was warming his hands by the fire. He bowed his head reverentially. "And I serve my Queen."
"Still needed your Queen to save your life," the man with the red beard and the flaming sword said with a smile. His name was Thoros, she'd learned.
"I would've had him," Ned answered. If it was day, Sansa imagined that she would see his face reddened by a blush. "But I'm grateful to Her Grace all the same."
"I see our Queen is a warrior," Brienne said to her warmly. "I'm glad of it."
This time, it was she who felt like blushing. "I'm not much of a warrior, Lady Brienne. I saw you out there. You can fight as well as any man."
"Beric included," Ned japed. It was his turn to ridicule the older man. They all seemed to know each other, were familiar with each other. They were still all strangers to her, but Sansa allowed herself to feel comforted, to trust in them their loyalty, their good word.
Loyalty.
It was a strange reminder, from a distant lifetime, when her mother still lived, and her grandfather, and Jon Arryn, and Tyrion Lannister whispered at her side, and she felt love and trust and comfort from everyone she knew.
Including the Littlefinger. That had been her doom.
She would trust them now, because she had no other choice. But she would do so carefully.
"Dorne will rally for you, Your Grace," Ned said. "I spoke to Prince Doran, he would've been ready to make war. We were preparing too."
"Not fast enough, apparently," Beric said, clearly disappointed. The man seemed the kind to be hard on himself.
Trystane had spoken to Ned, Sansa remembered. So they knew about them, because Beric had been in the tent too, according to Trystane. But they did not seem to care, they did not judge her at all.
"I'll have ravens sent to Sunspear," Beric said. He looked towards young Ned. "We're still a long way from Prince's Pass. Can you bring the Queen safely to Starfall?"
"I will, I swear it."
Beric nodded, though Sansa wasn't entirely sure the older man felt convinced. "Bring Thoros with you."
"What about you," she asked him, "and Lady Brienne?"
"We'll ride to the marches," Beric replied. "It's war now. We need to rally what bannermen we can in the Stormlands, Lady Brienne needs to get her father's men off the island. And...my wife and son remain in Blackhaven. The marches are unprotected. I'll need to send a small detachment to escort them to Starfall as soon as I can."
He has his family too. He cares for his family...as he should. But there are limits to his loyalty. Beric Dondarrion is loyal to me, he saved my life, when no one else was there for me.
But he'll also risk it, handing me to the protection of a boy years younger than myself, because of his own family.
"I trust him," Sansa smiled. Again, she did not have any other choice. "I'll watch his back."
They all laughed. None of their laughs were carefree. But at least she knew it.
Young Ned
"I spoke to your sister too."
The faint winter's sun watched over them in the sky. Beric and Brienne had departed earlier that morning. Now it fell upon his shoulders, and his alone, to protect the fucking Queen of Westoros. Whatever one may say about his life, it was certainly never boring.
"Do they treat her well," Sansa asked him, both of them riding slower in the afternoon after rushing wordlessly out from their camp at the first light. Her Grace, Ned corrected himself. Don't slip, she's only used to her servants, she doesn't know you're not used at all to being around royalty.
"She has her own wing of the palace," Ned answered, nodding, grateful that he did not have more bad news for her, on this account at least. "She's made some friends too, I think."
"Friends," the Queen replied skeptically, casting doubt upon his story.
"Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters," Ned explained hastily. "They're called the Sand Snakes, in Dorne. They love a good fight. So does the Princess...I've heard."
A smile grew upon the Queen's face. It was a comforting sight, and it reassured him that he may actually succeed in his duties.
"Leave it to Arya..."
"I told your sister you had friends neither of you knew of," Ned continued, when her words trailed off. He had no brothers or sisters, barely memories of his own parents. Not for the first time did Ned wonder what it must be like, to know a sister beloved, then forcibly separated from her. To have any family at all, beside his aunt. "That not everyone in the realm has forgotten who their true Queen is. I couldn't tell her about Prince Trystane..."
This time it was he who found himself lacking for words. They'd loved each other, that he'd known. To what extent...well, it was probably extensive, considering the whispers of the slaughter in King's Landing. Two Martell whitecloaks dead with no explanation, along with the King's Master of Whispers. There were darker whispers too, about the two surviving sons of King Eddard. And even fouler ones. Ned dared not to question her on any such matters.
"I loved him," Sansa answered solemnly, eyes cast in the distance. "He died for me."
"I'm sorry, Your Grace."
They rode in silence for some time after.
"These woods go on forever," the Queen said thoughtfully.
"I know them like the back of my hands," Ned said, careful not to sound like he was boasting. "We were chasing the bandits setting fire to them, terrorizing the villagers and townsfolk."
On Rhaegar's behalf, Beric believed. It seemed there was nothing he could speak of which did not touch upon one way or another how Rhaegar Targaryen had wronged the Queen.
"We should send another raven to Sunspear tonight," she decided later. The Queen carried not a sword, but her word was still the law, his law. "Summon Prince Doran to Starfall, so we may discuss our new alliance, and this upcoming war, together. Arya is to accompany them, obviously, as a gesture of his good will. Ask him to bring his daughter as well. I would like to meet my nephew."
"Nephew," Ned asked, startled. There'd been whispers, when he'd ridden through Dorne, that Arianna Martell had borne a bastard child. Could it be?
"I'll explain later," the Queen replied cryptically, yet answering his unasked question at the same time.
A dim fire illuminated his tent, as his fingers turned the page of the tome. Then she'd entered, without asking permission, or even assuring that he was decent. Which he was, but the Queen didn't know that.
"Your Grace," he rose hurriedly, sitting upwards and slinging his legs across the side of the bed.
"You can call me Sansa," the Queen replied, as she took a seat in the cot next to him. "We're going to have to ride together for a long time, you might as well call me by my name."
"Sansa," Ned tested on his lips.
Her eyes glanced down into his lap, where his book lay. "What are you reading?"
"A book, Your Grace." Stupid. Gods, what a stupid answer. Ned explained further, reading aloud the title. "The Marches and Campaigns of the Dance of Dragons."
Sansa laughed. It was a pleasant, musical sound.
"Sounds scintillating."
"It is," he replied defensively. "There's several chapters about the Lord Cregan, you know. Your ancestor."
"I recall," the Queen whispered, her pale blue eyes again a world away. "Funny thing, isn't it, a Stark marching to the aid of a Targaryen."
"Now a Dondarrion, a Tarth, a Dayne, and a damned drunken Myrish priest march on behalf of a Stark Queen."
He almost said Martell too, but decided against it. Gods, it seemed any subject he dared tread around her threatened to touch against her traumas. Her hands beckoned towards him, and he handed her the book. The Queen flipped casually through the pages, though Ned did not think she was actually reading them.
"You'll have to tell them to stop calling you Ned," she suddenly said, placing the book aside, away from him.
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm won't have my newest lover sharing the same name as my father."
He thought it a joke at first, before he looked into her eyes, and saw that strangely enough, she was serious.
"Do you not want it," she questioned him as if he were dumb, because he had indeed been struck dumb, and failed to fathom any possible reply to her words.
"I...I do?"
"Good," the Queen replied. Rising, she began undoing the straps of her gown. "You can take your clothes off too, you know."
"Oh," Ned said, his every word a clumsy stumble. "Of course." Haphazardly, he worked at loosening his shirt, all the while unable to avert his eyes from the Queen's body. Even in the dim light, he could see faint bruises marking several spots upon her skin. Her eye had been swollen the day they saved her, and Ned wondered just how cruel was Rhaegar, and the men who'd abused the rightful and usurped Queen in the name of the dragon.
"You don't have to do this," he said, even though she stood entirely naked before him now, and he was nearly so, his pants cramped by his ankles. He still crouched his hands over his lap, as if merely showing himself still constituted treason.
The Queen looked away shyly. "Do I not please you, my lord?" There seemed to be disappointment in her voice. Could he not do anything right, when it came to protecting a damned Queen?
"No, it's not that," he said with much urgency. "You're beautiful...clearly. But..."
"But what?"
Even though she was naked, she remained entirely frightening to him. He'd never even seen Talla so exposed to him like this.
"You don't have to do this for me," Ned tried, not exactly sure how wanted to explain it to her. "Don't feel like you...owe me...any...gratitude. For, um, finding you, and...saving you, I guess."
The Queen shook her head, and he thought he saw a faint smirk upon her face.
"That's not why I'm doing this," Sansa said, her feet creeping ever closer to him. "I don't do this for you, I'm doing this for me."
"Oh," was all Ned could think to say in response. Still backing away instinctively at her approach, he found himself lying his atop cot, cornered really, his embarrassment open and revealed for the Queen to see.
She really is beautiful.
And dangerous too, he remembered, though with a smile. His heart felt lighter with that thought.
"You saved my life too," he said, surprisingly feeling more at ease as she climbed atop of him, his body shivering at the touch of her skin upon his own. The book fell against the ground. "Don't think I'm the one doing this out of gratitude to you, either."
"Edric?" She hung over him, frozen, and he thought his stupidity had been enough to change her mind. Was that what he wanted? Or was it not?
"Your Grace?" He could help but call her that, when he replied, especially when she addressed him so formally.
"Do try to shut up when the Queen is fucking you."
