Edric

"You've never bathed in a spring before?"

"No," he heard the Queen reply from behind his back, accompanied by the sound of her hands lapping against the water. "They have hot springs near my uncle's keep in Winterfell, but mother wouldn't let me go in. Says it wasn't proper for a princess, that she didn't want...well..."

"She didn't anyone want to see you naked?"

"No," came her voice. "Not in the Red Fork when we went to Riverrun either."

He'd seen see plenty of the Queen these recent days, yet Ned still didn't feel right peeking at her whilst she bathed in what was, for the moment, her private bath.

"You should come in," she taunted at him, ever throwing temptation in his face. "The water does feel good. It's warmer, probably, than where you're standing now."

"Your Grace," Edric coughed, "with all respect, that's kind of the point of a hot spring, is the hot water. It'll be hot, not cold, did they not teach you that in the Red Keep?"

"Treason! Treason!" There came a furious splash of water, cool droplets hit at his neck, and Ned dared to crane his head backwards, where the Queen reclined, most of her body submerged below the bubbling and translucent waters, the rays of the sun shining upon her as if she sat inside a crown of gold.

"Take my head then," Ned japed, "there'd be no one to guard ya!"

That wasn't exactly true. Ahead of him, on the other side of the trees by the boundary of the camp, stood about twenty bannermen whose sole purpose in life, at this moment, was preventing any straggler from intruding upon the Queen whilst she bathed.

"No one to dry you either! Do you even know how to dry yourself, Your Grace? Or has someone always dressed and dried Her Grace all her life?"

"I did." Suddenly her voice did not sound so lighthearted anymore. "Until they took Jeyne away."

She would be sad now for the rest of the day, Edric figured. He liked it when she smiled, when she laughed at him, when she returned his jokes and teasings with her own barbed words. Edric turned apologetically, and watched her emerge out the spring, her desire for its soothing waters waned. Quickly he grabbed the cloths, and covered up her body though no one would dare look or intrude upon them in his small corner of the Red Mountains, beside a small pass which ran above from Prince's Pass and led back down to the Torentine and Starfall. These springs he'd known since he bathed here as a child, and Ned never failed to enjoy this small delight each time he rode between his family's castle and the Stormlands.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, carefully wiping dry her body, then leaving her still covered with the linens, the Queen's makeshift handmaiden for this afternoon ran to grab her garments and dress lying upon a bare rock. "I didn't mean to bring you bad memories."

"It's fine," Sansa replied, though he could tell her smile seemed somewhat forced. "I doubt you'd be able to say anything at all to me, without bringing me bad memories."

The Queen finished dressing herself in silence, and they walked back into the camp, Edric watching carefully over her as if he were one of her whitecloaks.

Not a good example, Ned, considering what'd happened to the last whitecloak who'd been her lover.

By the time they'd returned under the gaze of his men, her gait was entirely calm and regal, that of a woman born to rule. Most of the men remained expressionless, few dared to exchange to him any winks or knowing looks aside from Thoros.

"I killed Meryn Trant and the Spider," she said suddenly, out of nowhere, while they rode the last stretches of the small, shrubby path leading up the mountain. Far ahead rode Thoros, on the lookout for any attackers about. That they'd killed all of her captors had bought them time, and though whispers were bound to grow as the Queen and the Lord of Starfall rode through the countryside with a small army, the further they distanced themselves from the capital, the less supporters Rhaegar had. His own banners had met them in the middle of Prince's Pass, their small procession strong enough were to repel most attacks, however unlikely.

"You did?" Edric purposefully avoided asking her any questions pertaining to the horrors she'd suffered in the Red Keep. He'd been about to remark to her now how impressive that was, for her to have successfully killed two whitecloaks, when he saw in her expression that her words had not been meant for boasting.

"Afterwards," she continued. "I lay naked in a pool of their blood, while they hit me, kicked me, and bound me." Though her face was solemn, morose, there did not appear to be sadness in her eyes. "I didn't want to die in the woods, Edric, not where you'd found me. But I did want to die there, in the Keep, let them kill me in the castle I was born and raised in. I swore with all my soul that I'd will myself to stay, to remain a ghost, a phantom, and torment them until I'd driven them beyond madness, each and every one of them."

"I'd say I wished that could have happened, because that's what you wanted then," Edric replied uncomfortably, leading his chin up to search for Thoros's horse further up the bend along the hill. "But I'm glad it didn't happen, I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," Sansa replied, and Edric thought her eyes revealed just the smallest, faintest shadow of the sweet girl he'd met for all but half a minute so many years ago, after the night he'd killed his first man.

"How did it feel," he couldn't help but ask, "when you killed them?"

The Queen chuckled, not a happy one. Then Edric watched as she looked away in thought, as if she'd never pondered this question until he'd asked her now.

"I didn't feel anything, I don't think," Sansa finally replied, looking him straight in the eye. "Not in the Keep, not with Penrose. The only thing I thought was that I couldn't miss, that I just had to hit them where I wanted to hit them, that I had no other choice. Afterward, I just felt relief, that I hadn't missed. And then I'd think again and again, repeatedly...what if I had missed, what if something'd gone wrong, if I'd struck upon Courtnay's armor instead of his neck, or had I only sliced him lightly, and he turned his sword back at me..."

The Queen's voice drew to a standstill, and Edric knew not to bother her further.

"Is that what it's like, to be a soldier?"

"For some," Ned answered, trying his best to think of an appropriate answer for her, as if it was his duty. "Everyone's different about it, I think."

"What about for you?"

Good question.

"I don't know," Ned said honestly. "I don't feel anything anymore, really. I don't cry over the men I've killed, or lose sleep. But...next time, when the next battle comes, and I see Rhaegar's men, and know the awful things they did to you..." He shook his head. "Some men love the killing, I think, like a good wine, or eating a fat and plump chicken roasted, or...like, it's like spending the night with a beautiful woman..."

He did not fail to notice her brief but visible blush.

"Beric doesn't like it," Edric continued, "I don't think. He hates it, but he does it anyway. Thoros too, that's why he drinks so much afterwards."

"You don't like it, but you don't hate it," the Queen summarized succinctly what he'd been trying to tell her.

"I just do it." Quickly, he added, "it doesn't mean I'm any less dedicated to fight for you, Your Grace. My sword is yours, I'll fight for you until my dying day, and better than some prick who loves getting blood on his sword, and doesn't care whose blood it is, or whom he sheds it for. Those men fight for themselves, no one else. I'll fight your enemies, but it's you I fight for, that I'd truly fight for."

She nodded, accepting his words, Ned thought, without saying anything more to him in return.

Except hadn't been entirely truthful to her, had he? There'd been that night, after he'd left Talla in Highgarden, that he'd wanted to slice the neck of a common butcher whose only crime had been to utter an unkind word in his direction. But he hadn't, and he was thankful for it, so ought that not count for something?

Then there'd been his liege lord. He'd felt the temptation then, standing before Prince Doran, the strange urge to strike out at a man because he simply did not like him, the way he looked, the way he sneered. Would he have, were there no consequences to be had? Was it treason even, to kill a traitor he'd nevertheless sworn vows of fealty to? And now whom they were about to seek as their newest and most powerful ally, whom he was soon to have as a guest in his own home...all Edric could predict was that the coming nights would trying in ways he'd never experienced before.


"What do you think of Doran Martell?"

She'd slept for what seemed nearly a whole day upon their immediate arrival at Starfall, whilst he arranged the castle, situating the small army which had accompanied them, and preparing for more to come. Then she'd eaten, presumably the first good meal the Queen had enjoyed since departing the Red Keep, or even before that, although Edric regretted that his kitchens did not have any lemons ready to prepare the kind of cakes she asked him for. It wasn't their nights together that Ned savored the most, though each was more excruciatingly enjoyable than the last...but the long, lingering mornings after, where they could just lie in his bed together, both of them happy to do nothing more than enjoying the touch of their skin against each other.

"What do I think of him?"

"You've met the man, haven't you," she asked him with a smile, though he sensed an impatience in her voice. Her fingers ran absentmindedly across his chest, while one knee of hers lay settled between his legs, brushing against him with purpose. Spent and exhausted as he was, Ned did not think that the Queen was unaware of her continued effect on him.

"Only once," Edric replied distastefully.

"You didn't like him?"

So he hadn't been able to hide his feelings that well. He'd need to work better at it, once the Martells arrived in the afternoon.

"He seems a very careful...crafty man. He's clever, of course he is...but, I think he thinks himself to be the cleverest man in all the known world. When he spoke to me...it felt like he didn't believe me worthy of his great mind at all, that I didn't deserve his audience, except out of necessity...that he was doing the greatest favor in the world to me by seeing me."

He'd woken that morning with Sansa's body draped atop of him. Edric liked to watch her sleeping peacefully in those first glimpses of the dawn, because the nights preceding it were anything but peaceful. Whatever they did together, it certainly wasn't making love, not like he'd always imagined how it would be with Talla. She slapped him, sometimes hit him with her bare fists, as if he were the awful Rhaegar she'd just escaped. She'd bite him, she grabbed at his hair, and ever since they moved to his castle, no longer surrounded by soldiers with open ears, she'd screamed as if he were attacking her, hurting her, though Sansa assured him afterwards that he hadn't been.

Then there were the times she cried while he was still inside her, yet whispered at him, ordering him to continue. Often afterwards, both of their minds and bodies drained, Edric held her while she continued weeping, until her mind passed mercifully into slumber. There were the nightmares too, when she'd scream and claw at him in the middle of the night, her words unintelligible. But the mornings were always tranquil, betraying no signs of the preceding night, leaving him with renewed determination every time he rose to do whatever he could to win the war for her, lover or not.

"You hadn't a chance to meet Arianne though?"

"I had not." He'd wondered then, half expecting Doran to propose the girl to be his bride, to shore up his support in Dorne. Now, hearing of her bastard child, it all made sense, but Edric did not expect that Doran would arrive without proposals this time, however. "But I did meet Prince Trystane's brother."

"Trystane says he's not much of a warrior," Sansa said thoughtfully. "Not clever like their father either."

Did she still think of her departed lover, when they made love, or whatever it was they did at nights, and sometimes in the morning? Theirs had truly been love, a love the likes of Florian and Jonquil, and Edric could not help but feel that, compared to his predecessor in the Queen's affections, he was no more or less an object to be used for the Queen's pleasure. Not that he had any complaints, not by far. Even if he did not receive the same pleasure in return, or better, it was his duty to give to the Queen whatever she demanded of him. And even as an object, he'd still be the most envied man in all Seven Kingdoms were it known widely, and though they'd known each other for the briefest time, Ned already found it difficult to remember his life before Sansa Stark had entered it.

"He's a good man though," Ned recalled of the bland Prince, "a decent one."

"You liked him," Sansa asked accusingly, as if he'd committed a crime.

"Not really," Edric answered honestly. "I didn't dislike him either. He was just kind of, well...there."

"You won't just be there," Sansa said to him with a tantalizing grin, perhaps reading through his fears, "when we win."

Edric did not think about winning. War was fought anticipating only the next minute, the next hour, the next day...not of its end. But never the less he rubbed her back confidently, to assure her that he felt just as strongly as she.

"Have you ever thought how it'll feel," she continued, "to hear others call of you a Prince."

"That's not what I want," Ned replied shyly.

"What is it you want then?" Her lips kissed him along his right breast as she spoke.

War. Victory. Dawn. To be remembered the same way as Arthur Dayne. To, unlike Ser Arthur, serve a worthy Queen, worthy of his family's ancestral sword.

"You," he answered with one simple decree.


The Martell ship arrived just after midday. Areo Hotah pushed the Prince ashore. A short but proud and stunning woman walked beside him, leading by her hand a small child with dark red hair. Nor did they fail to notice that Prince Quentyn trailed them by several steps, and behind him, Edric recognized the Queen's sister amidst an ending sea of Sand Snakes.

They met, and bowed and exchanged greetings. The Queen and the Prince eyed each other carefully, and Edric noticed that Doran Martell paid him no need. Nor did Sansa, while she remained pleasant to the older man, it was towards the rear of the procession that her eyes fervently glanced towards, except etiquette prevented the Queen from running and embracing her long lost sister like, well...long lost sisters. Arianne she remained circumspect with, though Sansa bent down in delight to meet her only nephew in this world. Quentyn she gave barely any attention to, Edric saw with some satisfaction, and he wondered if it was because of his dismissal of the man in bed that morning.

Finally, it came time. They embraced fervently, but briefly, though it comforted Edric that Sansa would have all the time she would wish with Arya once the formalities were over, and they were alone in his castle.

"Bran and Rickon," Arya asked, her eyes trembling and fearful.

Biting her lips, Sansa shook her head only once, enough to convey the dreadful news. "I'm sorry Arya."

This was news to him. The Queen had not spoken a word of her brothers through the entire ride.

"There was a child too. A daughter."

"Oh Sansa." But again they did not dare to embrace, truly embrace each other before so many prying eyes, Edric's included.

"We'll avenge them," the small Princess swore. It seemed she'd suspected so long that she already knew too. Having met them separately, now seeing them side by side, Edric thought he feared the younger one more, though it was through the slimmest of margins.

"And my son Trystane," Doran reminded her, as if Sansa were crass enough to have forgotten him.

"I will build statues of Trystane across all seven kingdoms," Sansa swore through gritted teeth. "I will name cities after him, he will be remembered, this I promise you."

Did it hurt, hearing of her continued dedication to her truest of loves? It did, but Edric did not begrudge her for it. Both of them had loved others before their paths had collided in the Kingswood.

"I pray you will, Your Grace," Doran answered. He looked towards Ned, carefully assessing him as if meeting him anew, before turning his attentions back to the Queen. "This is my son Quentyn. He is not his brother, but...I believe you will find in him an noble Prince of Dorne befitting of his title."

Already? Gods, the man truly has no heart.

"A pleasure," Sansa said, feigning politeness and allowing the ugly, stumpy prince to kiss at her hand.

"Come, my good Princes and Princesses," Edric spoke for the first time, gesturing them towards the gates of Starfall. "I know far more about war than hosting. I'm afraid our feast tonight will be nothing like the ones you enjoy in Sunspear or the Water Gardens, but I look forward to the opportunity to learn of wine and dance from the very best."

The Queen decided to remain closer to the rear of the train, beside her sister. Edric would wish to accompany them, but for the sake of pretense, he had to walk at the head of their procession aside the Prince, careful to maintain the pace of his walking with Hotah's as the lumbering beast of the man slowly pushed his Prince up the incline.

"These are your new friends," he heard Sansa asking the small Princess.

"They are," Arya answered eagerly. "May I introduce Lady Ellaria, Nymeros, Tyene, Sarella, Obara..."

How the Princess kept straight all their names, Ned knew not, though it made sense, considering the Sand Snakes had been practically her only company over the last two years.

"The Sands number thousands in Dorne," he heard Oberyn's former lover telling the Queen. "We are all sisters, and here we are sworn swords to our Prince, Oberyn's daughters and I. Regardless of birth...no name or useless vows need remind us where our truest loyalties lie."

Doran laughed, and craned his head back at the Queen. "You will learn much of Dorne, Your Grace. I look forward to it. I have a feeling that my Sand Snakes alone will be able to win you back Seven Kingdoms, long before your Northmen even reach Moat Cailin..."


Daenerys

"My good lords of Westeros, I mean to tell the truth, and only that. My heart has hid my guilt for so long now. Though I've never admitted to a man before, it does not mean that I do not feel heavily the burdens of my crimes.

I am a traitor. I betrayed first my King, who gave me justice for the massacre of King's Landing, and then my Queen, who was a child and did nothing to wrong me. I committed such treasons out of lust for power. I wanted a Martell sitting upon an Iron Throne. I sold out first my own daughter, bidding her to give her body to Robb Stark, whom she did in fact bear true affections for. I plied the Prince with wine, until he gave in.

I expected a crown for a grandchild in return, but when Robb Stark did not return Arianne's affections, I was driven mad with rage. I sent word to Rhaegar, and begged him for an alliance sealed through the union between our houses, despite the fact that my daughter had given birth by then to the bastard son of Prince Robb.

The Prince did not know of this when he announced his betrothal to Margaery Tyrell, he never knew of it when he died on Pyke at the age of ten and six.

Once the agreement was sealed, Rhaegar's secret messengers, men who introduced themselves to me as Sparrows, confided in me Rhaegar's true and ill intent, to destroy the Faith of the Seven, and replace it with the High Sparrow and his acolytes, who serve with all dedication the false god of fire R'hilor, a horrible religion which condones the ritualistic burning of its followers whilst they still live and breath. They told me of their intentions towards the Great Sept of Baelor; horrified as I was, I told no one, because I'd decided that my revenge outweighed the costs Rhaegar would inflict upon the realm, or upon my soul.

Nor ought it matter. It was my intention for Arianne to plot for Rhaegar's demise once they sat both upon the Throne, then crown her own child as a King or Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, under the name of House Martell.

So much betrayal I'd plotted, it should not have surprised me when I was then betrayed in turn by Rhaegar. Yet I'd still been surprised.

I've had many years to think now, the icy fingers of remorse gripped firm, digging deeper into my shoulders with every passing night. My beloved daughter despises her father, and cannot stand the sight of him. She is a broken shell of herself since her heartbreak, since she'd learned the truth of how callously I'd used her. My eldest son Quentyn questions his father, his family, the meaning of his legacy and his name. But it is the news of my youngest son Trystane, my most beloved, whom I'd lost when I'd carelessly sent him years ago to fight in Rhaegar's war, which has truly broken me.

This evening, I looked into the eyes of a woman I'd betrayed, who yet loved my youngest son. I can bear this farce of a life no longer. I can only make amends with the last weapon I have left in my arsenal: the truth. May all the lords and all the realm know of it. May my daughter see it in her heart to forgive me after I'm gone, may my death give her the strength she needs to rule, may she restore honor and glory to the great name I've sullied.

Doran Nymeros of the House Martell; Prince of Dorne & Lord of Sunspear."

"It's all true then," Lancel's eyes widened, as she finished reading the letter bearing the seal of the ruling Prince of Dorne. "Everything you've said about your brother, and the Sparrows..."

"Of course I told you the truth," Daenerys insisted, hurt that her husband could ever believe otherwise. "It was in not telling you that I was untrue to you in the beginning, because...I...I wasn't sure if I could really trust in you yet. But I trust you now, dear Lancel, my husband, the father of my child."

"You poor girl," Lancel's aunt Genna whispered in horror, and Daenerys thought she was about to cry. "The horrors you must have seen, being forced to live with that...man...all your life."

"He raised me," Daenerys said, her voice sounding like a death rattle. When she spoke, she thought of that night when they'd finally battered through the doors to Lewyn's chambers, and she saw with her eyes the body of the man she loved, in whatever way she loved him, hanging suspended from his ceiling, eyes dead and yet wide open, locked in an eternal horror. "The things he subjected my innocents eyes to...those, awful...rituals, I don't think I can ever forget..."

"And you said you saw the High Sparrow there in Rhaegar's court," Roland Crakehall asked nervously, sitting across the table from her, "preaching the teachings of this Lord of Light?"

Roland Crakehall was one of the more powerful lords in the Westerlands. He was a strong man, not particularly bright, Daenerys did not think, but there was an innate sense of a soldier's honor guiding his heart, so far as she could guess.

"They...they...they lay with each other," Daenerys said, her word gasping and catching in her throat, as if she had to force them out one by one, "he and his Sparrows and the Priestesses in that awful temple in Volantis. Then they laid my brother on the table, and they all lay together, while...the...the, the children, children from newborn babes to boys gelded and slave girls...they screamed as the priests fed them into the fire burning at the hearth, while my brothers and the Sparrows and priestesses all did...carnal knowledge with each other."

Was it too much? It was probably too much. But by the Gods, it was fun, it would be fun, were her ability to enjoy telling such ridiculous stories not clouded by her hatred of her brothers.

"Then," her teeth began to chatter, and her body rocked unevenly, shaking fearfully back and forth. "I'd been dreading it all my life, I think. They brought me into the room they perform...the ceremonies in. And the High Sparrow put his cold hands on my body, and he started taking off my dress, and, I...I looked at Rhaegar and Viserys, and..."

She couldn't go on. She cried, and remembered Lewyn hanging, and remembered the man plunging his sword through the heart of a newborn babe, and the sad eyes of the prisoner her brother kept as his wife.

"Oh, you poor girl," Lady Genna said, taking her in her full arms as Daenerys shook and bawled against her shoulder, while Lancel stared at them dumbly and Roland Crakehall looked uneasily and suspiciously at the fire gracing their hearth in Casterly Rock. "Oh, you poor, poor girl."

It'd been no secret that she hadn't possessed her maidenhead the night she first shared her marriage bed with Lancel. The story they'd told her to tell was that she must've lost it riding and exploring the hills of the Summer Isles with her serving girls, who accompanied her wherever they went. Daenerys doubted any one of them believed the story except Lancel, but it did not matter then, a Targaryen Princess is a Targaryen Princess. Besides, Lancel's reputation had been damaged as well, what with all the not so sordid details of his so called affair with Sansa Stark trailing his name like a cloud of dust.

"We have to tell my father," Lancel exclaimed, biting at his nails nervously. He hadn't believed her at first, confining her to her rooms after she'd only had the chance to tell her story, more sordid with each telling than the last, to only a few Westerland lords. But then came the letter bearing the seal and signature of Doran Martell.

So the Queen somehow made her away out of the capital. Good for Sansa. Not so good for my brothers.

"I love Kevan," Genna said sincerely, as Daenerys withdrew her head from the woman's bosom. "He's a decent man, a faithful one. I can't imagine he can support this infernal order, if he truly knows their motives."

"He doesn't," Daenerys affirmed. They weren't idiots, aside from Lancel anyway, and she knew that their tolerance for her incredulous tales could only be strained so far. "No one really knows, I don't even think Lord Tarly knows. In the Keep...only my brothers, the Sparrows, and the Spider."

"I've a feeling he'll know pretty damned soon," Roland Crakehall muttered. "Every damned man, woman, and child will know, from the Arbor to the Wall. Shame Lord Tywin's stuck there, he'd be able to talk some sense into Lord Kevan."

Lord Tywin murdered Elia and her children.

But Daenerys controlled her rage, it would not be helpful. And besides, hadn't it been Rhaegar himself who'd sold her as a common whore to Tywin Lannister's kin?

"I met Lord Tyrion once," Daenerys said delicately. "He...he had kind eyes. And Sansa always spoke well of him."

"The poor girl," Roland continued muttering. "If the Queen has to endure what you did, princess..."

"Hush Roland," Genna whispered, "let's not speak of such things." The older woman looked sympathetically at Daenerys. "Tyrion's a good man, a clever one. He's very much worthy of Tywin's name...oh, my brother will kill me if he hears me say such things, both of them...but it's the truth. What happened...is...a shame. No family's perfect, least of all ours..."

"We have to get father back to Casterly Rock," Lancel continued, seemingly having fallen out of the sway of the Sparrows overnight.

"By word or by force," Roland muttered, "maybe I can ride to the capital, talk some reason into the man."

Kevan Lannister could not be allowed to return alive to the Westerlands, that much was obvious. How? Daenerys was not sure yet. Maybe she could quietly inquire into Daario's whereabouts.

"But if you fail, they'll have you burned like Lord Baelish," Daenerys countered. He seemed a useful man to have close by. She turned again to Genna. "I know Lord Tywin cannot interfere with the politics of the realm. But surely he can send just one letter to his brother from Castle Black, begging him to see reason?"

"Rhaegar would consider it treason," Roland added thoughtfully. "But all the North stands between Rhaegar and Castle Black, doesn't it?"

"I don't expect the Starks to be so forgiving," Genna said, having her own doubts about the idea. "I doubt my brother Tywin's forgiven anyone either, for the matter. But there are greater threats at hand...of enemies shared, we have no shortage of them...perhaps it's time we sent some ravens to Winterfell."


Sansa

"It is my regret to inform the realm of the tragedies which has befallen in Starfall, the seat of House Dayne. Prince Doran Martell betrayed my father, my family, yet I loved his son, we could share in at least that, before he died. We spoke of the man we both loved, in those last days, and I found in my heart some forgiveness for his remorseful soul, though I was not ready to grant it fully to him yet.

The words I write above are true, about Prince Trystane, a good man and knight whose life was cut too short. Have I been true to every tenet laid down in the Seven Pointed Star? I have not. In truth, after all the sins the vile usurper and his band of heretical worshipers of R'hilor inflicted upon me, perhaps the truth is that I'd forgotten what is and what isn't sin.

I am your Queen and I have sinned. Other men who sat upon my throne have too. I can't say whether men like Maegor or Aegon IV or Aerys II prayed, I can only testify that I pray to the Mother nightly for forgiveness.

Yet the one sin I am innocent of is that of laying with a man outside my marriage, because in truth, I was never married. The union between the usurper Rhaegar and I was conducted by the High Sparrow, who is a heretic, who not only does not keep to the Faith of the Seven, the Faith of the Andals, but seeks to destroy it with his every breath. The marriage was forced upon me through an act of treason. If treason is illegal, then how can any actions conducted in its name hereafter be deemed lawful and legitimate in the eyes of Gods and men? When the Blackfyre usurpers denied the Crown and named their own Hands, and Small Councils, and Lord Paramounts, were their pronouncements regarded with any seriousness by those true to the Crown?

The saddest truth I bear is that my son, forced into me by the usurper, is a bastard. But freed from the shackles of usurpers and heretics, though I regret that he lies beyond my protection, I, Sansa I Stark, sole and rightful Queen Regnant of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, proclaim my son legitimized as Baelor of House Stark. By the same proclamation written in this letter you receive now, I also legitimize Prince Joffrey of House Martell, son of Prince Robb, my brother, and the late Princess Arianne.

I spare a few words now to tell of her sad story, her grief at both her father's crimes, yet also his unspeakable and irreversible final act. She took poison. The maesters assure me it was painless, and I believe them. They told me her last words concerned her beloved son, that he may be cared for after she passed. May the Gods forgive her gentle soul and bless her in the Heavens, may the fair Princess finally find peace and happiness where she did not in this life.

With the abdication of Prince Quentyn, a child now reigns sovereign over Dorne. Until Prince Joffrey comes of age, I proclaim as his Regents Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, and the Lady Ellaria Sand, who was beloved to the late Prince Oberyn.

In the name of the Crown, the Throne, in the name of the Seven, I call forth that all Seven Kingdoms shall rise against the usurper Rhaegar and his band of traitors and fanatics, who seek to destroy what little remains of the Faith in this realm.

Henceforth, each and every Sparrow is to be considered the most dangerous of outlaws. By the orders of the Queen, it is the duty of every man, woman, and child to wipe this infernal order off our sacred soil. Given the urgency of the matter and the weights of their crimes, no trials need be afforded those in their order, nor any who support or harbor them.

I call for all the realm to pray for the safety of my son and your Prince, Baelor of House Stark, an innocent child held captive by the usurper. I call for all the realm to pray for the safety of Lady Cersei Lannister, the dutiful and faithful wife of Lord Benjen Stark of Winterfell; and her sweet and beloved children, Myrcella Stark, Tommen Stark, & Myrcella Stark, all held captive by the usurper's arch-heretic.

These are the words, pronouncements, & orders of Sansa I Stark, Queen Regnant who was anointed by the New Gods and the Old. So as she commands you, so do all the true Gods, New & Old."

"Queen Sansa?"

"Yes, my dear."

Dropping her quill, Sansa bent to her side and took the child's hands in hers. Though undoubtedly Dornish in color, Joffrey had Robb's eyes, Robb's hair, this precious boy the last she had of her brother.

"Mother's really gone, isn't she?"

Sansa nodded, hugging the boy, lifting him so he sat upon her legs. Joffrey was intelligent for his age. Of course he'd be, he had good blood in him. "I'm sorry child. Your mother loved you dearly, she told me that. But...there are some things...we can't help ourselves sometimes, even if we want to."

Her wrists ached, but there remained more letters to write, to send to all through the realm. Doran Martell's wrists had ached too, but she didn't care about that. He deserved all the pain she inflicted upon him, and would inflict upon him after all his letters were written and sent. Doran wrote under the threat of a sword, not pressed against his own neck, but against those of his two surviving children. So Sansa had delighted in the betrayal in his eyes the past night, when she'd told him of his daughter Arianne's decision to take poison, before Arya had ran her Needle through the man's stomach in the deepest bowels of Edric's castle.

"She doesn't mean to leave you," Sansa continued, cradling the boy's head against her shoulder. "She must miss you dearly, wherever she is. She'd want you to be good, to be strong, to learn to grow wise, for her."

"I will," Joffrey promised sadly, innocently. "I promise."

It broke her heart to see Robb's son have to comprehend such grief at his young age. But she couldn't help it, this was war.

The poison part had been at least the truth, though Arya told her the girl had fought and screamed while the woman Obara pried open her mouth to pour the liquid down her throat. Arya's new friends had been disappointed it hadn't been worse for Arianne, but Ellaria had not cared, so long as Doran suffered. And while Sansa did blame Arianne for her part in the plots which ended up killing Robb along with their father, she could sympathize too that the girl, though she was a woman grown and many years older than her and Robb at the time, Arianne Martell ultimately served only as her father's tool, believe it herself she may or may not. If she swore to remain quiet and disappear, Sansa would have let her live. Because such naive thoughts could not be trusted, could never be trusted ever again, Arianne Martell had to die, though she'd allow the woman the mercy of the gentlest death possible.

"Ready," Arya asked from the doorway.

There was the matter of Arianne's brother as well, to be resolved shortly. Joffrey ran to his other aunt, whom he'd known for several years now and together, they stepped carefully down the stairways of the castle, each holding one of Joffrey's hands as the boy walked wedged between his two aunts. Leaving him with one of the younger Sand girls, they continued their descent into the dungeons.

Edric had already arrived and stood nervously nearby the cell door. Inside were Ellaria and the three eldest Sand Snakes, who stood around the young man cowered pitifully upon the ground, as if about to begin some dreadful ritual. Quentyn Martell was many years older than her, Sansa knew, yet his sheer fright made him look younger than herself, or even Arya or Edric.

"Please...please, Your Grace," he begged the moment he saw her approach. "I...promise, I won't say a word, I'll run away, I'll take a ship to Essos."

"That's exactly what happened," Sansa replied coldly, "isn't it, Lord Edric? That you'd become disillusioned with your father, with your responsibilities. You did not wish to rule Dorne, so you ran away to Essos, to seek out your sellsword friends in Slaver's Bay."

"It is, Your Grace," Edric mumbled. "Though I believed you said that you'd accompany Areo Hotah back to Norvos first." He'd liked none of this, though Doran's he'd protested only because he was his liege lord and also his guest. Arianne Edric shirked at because she was a woman, but Quentyn's death he liked the least, because unlike Arianne, or even Trystane, who'd once fought in an invading army against her, this Prince had absolutely nothing to do with any of his father's betrayals.

"He's a decent man. He's not a fighter, or a warrior..."

"You don't have to be the one who does it," Sansa had argued with him the first night of their arrival, and she'd talked with Arya, truly talked, and learned of the actual allegiances of the Lady Ellaria, realizing that her plans for Dorne could come about much sooner than she'd originally anticipated...but only if Edric agreed in what had to be done.

"Does it matter," he replied, sitting upon his bed looking helplessly up at her. "It's my castle, my house, they're guests of mine, we broke bread, and shared salt..."

"I'm your guest too," Sansa insisted. "So's Arya, so's Lady Ellaria, and all the Sands. I don't think you're the one who's cursed, if your guests murder each other under your roof. And guest rights ought not even apply to traitors, I don't believe."

"You know that's not how it works!"

"Let me bear the burden, Edric! If someone's to be the one who's cursed, let it be me, I've been long accursed already!"

"You don't know what you're saying, Sansa."

How could say did? Did he not know her so well already, had she not revealed so much of herself to him?

"I do, believe me Edric, I do."

"That's what I'll do, I promise," Quentyn continued begging, tears streaming freely from his eyes now. "I'll forget I'm a Martell, I'll never raise my sword against you, I'll forget everything..."

"I wish you could do that," Sansa replied sadly. "I wish I could trust you. But that's the problem, isn't it? I don't know you. I can't trust you. You're a threat. I can't let people I don't trust, who threaten myself and my family, continue to live in this world."

"You knew my brother," he cried out, calling upon his last resort. "You loved him! Does that not mean anything to you?"

"Trystane meant everything to me," she replied angrily. How dare he? She'd curse him for reminding her of her ghosts, except he had every right to do so. He was the one in the right, Sansa reminded herself, and she in the wrong. Yet it did not matter. "But you mean nothing to me."

"What would Trystane think, about everything you've done to his family?" It was his last card, and they all knew it.

"I wish he could think right now," Sansa replied, looking at Arya, gesturing at her, so that they did not have to drag this torment out much more. "But he doesn't think, he's dead."

This was what she believed. Perhaps the Old Gods were real, they'd answered her prayers atop that execution block, albeit not the way she'd intended. Maybe it was the Lord of Fire who truly reigned, she'd seen many strange things after all in the Priestess's eyes that night. But if there was one thing that Sansa Stark could be certain of, it was that the gods of the Seven were the only ones she could safely discard, that whatever hells awaited after her death to torment her, it was not the ones described in the Seven Pointed Star.

Nor was she sure that killing an innocent man like Quentyn, the first of what was to be many to come in this coming war, was a crime to be condemned by any of the Gods. Obviously the awful ones were awful, but just how much worse were they, the cruel yet revered dynasts like the Conqueror and all the killers who came before even the Dragonspawns, the very same ones who were worshiped by every knight swearing his vows to protect the innocent, including her own ancestors in the North, compared to the likes of the Mad King, Maegor, and all the other insane Targaryen and Blackfyre princes? Whether out of insanity, or rightful conquest, or family or house or name, the one thing they all had in common was slaughter. So if she was to be condemned, Sansa could take comfort that she'd merely joining every single King and warrior Prince who'd come before her, whether they sat atop the Iron Throne, or the hundreds scattered kingdoms which once graced the land as the First Men and then the Andals sailed in turn upon the shores of her realm to kill and conquer with no discretion at all.

At once, Arya pointed her needle and struck it straight into the man's heart. It was quick, Quentyn choked out several mouthfuls of blood, and his eyes faded soon after. It had been her sister who'd struck first upon Doran too, gutting him, eliciting the first of his screams before each one of the Sand Snakes took their pound of flesh with their odd and exotic weapons. Doran did not know it, he did not deserve to know it, but it had been precisely his pain and torment which just spared his son a grislier fate, because Ellaria's girls would have their quarry one way or another, so better it be inflicted upon the man who'd conspired with the Littlefinger to betray father and Robb.

The Queen and Lady Ellaria both stood back, the blood flowing far away from where their feet stood. Both of them had merely watched with Doran too, because Ellaria Sand understood the same thing...why kill yourself, when you had others to perform the task for you?

Rhaegar knows well of that too, Sansa could not but think bitterly.

Edric looked away, and Sansa put an arm around him. "I'm sorry love. I know you don't like this. But this is war, and it has to be done."

"I understand."

Sansa knew exactly what he understood, because she'd understood it the moment she'd made up her mind to take the boy in her bed. The Martells had to be punished, they had to be all but wiped to extinction, so that Doran or Arianne might not change their minds upon their alliance after a fortnight, so that she did not have to constantly worry about their loyalty for the rest of her war, her reign. Eventually Edric would have needed to give them battle, perhaps ambush them on their ride back east to Sunspear. But then Doran had chosen to sail to Starfall accompanied by his sworn swords, so it was possible he suspected the same thing, and thought a trip by sail safer, Starfall not known for their fleets after all. Except Arya had told her the truth about the Sand Snakes, and Sansa realized just how quickly she could achieve her purposes, so long as Edric did not fight her.

The Queen squeezed his hand, and he squeezed her back.

"I don't expect there to be more of this," Sansa continued, pressing her eyes upon his. "They were your liege lords, it had to be done this way. But all our remaining enemies are ones we fight in the open."

Did he believe her? She needed him to.

Edric blinked, and Sansa recognized his complete subjugation. A man may pledge their swords to her, their vows, their lives and undying loyalty. Perhaps they'd actually remain true, but truest of all was possessing entirely the heart of a man who would serve her as her knight, her prince, and her lover. She could do a lot worse than Edric, seducing him had been a task she'd looked forward to, once her mind had been made up on it.

Arya and all her Sands watched the two of them knowingly, cold amusement dancing inside the eyes of her sister.

"We rally all of Dorne," Edric said, picking up where she left off, stepping to her side so that they faced together their burgeoning court, the dead boy's body already forgotten. "Then we fight. We start with Horn Hill. Then the Reach, then every kingdom until the realm is united under our rightful Queen, and every last man who stands with the usurper gets what he deserves."

"You all stand with me now," Sansa proclaimed in this dark cell, their hands still joined. "One day you will stand beside me, when I return to my seat upon the Iron Throne."

And if the boy proves his worth and his loyalty, he'll stand beside me before anyone else in the realm. I'd prefer it be him.

But if not, I'll find another.

Sansa tried recalling how it felt to sit in the Iron Throne, her rightful inheritance. They'd given her Seven Kingdoms, the day they'd placed a crown upon her head.

Except they'd never truly belonged to her, had they?

Standing in the deepest dungeons under the castle of her lover, Sansa tried to capture this feeling in her heart. Dorne was hers, it belonged entirely to her, because it hadn't been given to her...she'd won it, herself.

And one kingdom won felt a hundred fold better than seven kingdoms given.