Sansa

"...but to whom do the Gods speak to? How can we men, humble in our limited knowledge, our limited wisdom, even seek to understand their infinite knowledge, their infinite wisdom?"

Holding up with one triumphant hand the small, worn tome she'd borrowed from the Starry Sept, feeling the temptation to burn the damned thing once the farce was over, Sansa bellowed out as loud as she could her sermon delivered to the gathered of tens of thousands in the Great Square of Oldtown, thousands more crammed into every window and balcony to witness the tirades of the conquering queen.

"The answer, as always, lies within the pages of the Seven Pointed Star." Turning her eyes down to the parchment, the holiest of Queens wondered if they'd believe her if she'd simply made up the passage, had a convenient one not been found. "Look not to the heavens, but to the grounds, the whispers of the winds, billowing blades of grass, see the flow of the rivers, the dust in the desert, the melting dew in the moors. Heed the wisdom of our ancestors, those who came before us, their stories, the lessons they share, for the past is carved in stone, irrevocable, as is the will of the Gods."

Waving the book high in the air, feeling the pleasant sensation of the warm southern sun bathing against her skin, concealed underneath a modest, cream colored silken dress, the Queen beckoned at the nobles bound and gagged on the steps beside her, then screamed her next words as loudly as she could.

"The will of the Gods! Does the Seven Pointed Star not tell us that the Gods convey to us their will by the day, by the second, by each interminable pause between the rise and fall of each sun? If the past is as solid and irremovable than the stone of the Hightower, then it is irrefutable that the very Gods themselves decided all the wars of the past, they who created and bequeathed the Iron Throne first to House Targaryen, then to House Stark. It was they who created the dragons, and they whose will saw them die to the last.

See the cowering sinners before you who have tried to usurp the throne then, through treachery, through heresy! See the pretender king Rhaegar, the arch-rapist, who was cast down by the Gods thrice in war, who now sits a prisoner of his rightful Queen! Would the Gods allow his captivity, were he their favored champion, this war itself their divine trial, to reveal their will to the realms of men? Would the Gods allow the defeats and surrenders of your lords, Hightowers and Redwynes, heirs to hallowed and ancient houses, had they been true to the faith, their traditions and bonds, had they not played their games of fealty and thrones by not just wagering for themselves your lives, but your very souls for their personal gain?"

The crowd moved, it felt vividly her every word, Sansa could tell, there was a similar fervor in their eye directed at the captive lords just as the mob in King's Landing had cast upon her and her mother during the High Sparrow's harangue. There was this fact too, that the Sparrows had originated in these very streets, the thousands of the spellbound men and women listening to her had been the very same ones who'd followed, empowered, and joined the wretched order in the first place. But then, times change, the mob was as impatient as it was stupid, and all they needed, as Sansa had seen firsthand, was a push from any deep throated fool convincing enough, much less a conquering and triumphant Queen.

"Would not I have received my crown, were it not the will of the Gods? Would I have not triumphed in war against the agents of the foreign god of fire, were it not the will of our true Gods, destined as they are to prevail over all pretenders forevermore? Would these traitors and heretics kneel prostrate before you this day, had the Gods not already determined their verdicts upon their guilty souls?"

The crowd screamed back at her, not in waves like a slow tide, but in unison, a solid wall of maelstrom crushing all stubborn enough to still stand opposed. The Queen stretched her arm even higher, if it were possible, as if her precious little book may touch the heavens themselves.

"Yet if I have fallen, that was the will of the Gods too. The Gods cast their chosen Queen off her throne and made her suffer, so that she may know what it's like to suffer. They cast her out of the capital and into the realm, so that she may see, hear, listen...understand, the people whom the Gods chose her to rule over, in their stead...the great peoples whom they have commanded her to embody through her faith, her charity. They set her through the trials of war and blood, so that she may bear witness to its horrors, the true price of these games your lords play when they forget their vows of fealty. They saw her punished, by the vilest heretics of the falsest Gods, so that she may see the true threat the enemies of the Faith pose to her realms, her peoples, so that she may remember and stand on guard and never rest a single day in her vigilance."

The crowd stood still, solemn, and if she burst into tears now, Sansa knew they were sure to weep with her.

"The Gods made me suffer, that is true. It was their will that I suffer, not for me, but for you, because they chose me, I understand that now. Few have been so chosen, I don't think, through the course of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, whose childhood was ripped through by war and intrigue...Aegon the Unlikely, the forgotten heir, free to roam the Seven Kingdoms as a hedge knight...Eddard the Just, who saw a tyrannical crown nearly rip away his entire family, understanding in his honorable and brave soul how the highest born of men can be treated no less cruelly than the common farmer, who suffers for the sins of their lords.

Let this be a new era then. Let my suffering not go to waste, but to help my people, like those blessed few who came before me! Let us not be led astray by those who claim to speak for the Gods, but let us heed the wisdom of those whom the Gods, through their actions, chose to carry their voices in our world! Let us forget the lies told to us, let us wash away with blood those who betrayed us, let it be known that no longer will the many suffer because of the few!"

The near maniacal cheers resumed, and with her one nod, Edric began, swinging Ice through the head of first Leyton Hightower, then his son Baelor. Then Sandor Clegane hacked off the head of Paxter Redwyne. And so it went, each execution eliciting louder screams of elation from the crowd, feeding their wretched souls upon the blood of the condemned, until there was no Hightower man alive over the age of seven and ten. Paxter and his men had to die too, though his eldest and newlywed son Horas remained in the dungeons. Oldtown's future was sealed in blood, but they told her that the young heir, now Lord of the Arbor, was quite popular with the commonfolk back on the island, so they still needed to decide just how to handle its governance, considering the Queen wished to continue drinking her Arbor Gold without interruption through the duration of the war and her reign afterwards.

"That was quite the speech," Daenerys said admiringly, as they walked up the circular stairs of the Hightower, walls shuddering with movement as Ironborn pirates picked out every treasure and furnishing in the ancient castle, same as how they'd pillaged Horn Hill before wrecking it. "Wish I had something like that to orate, in my old days in the theatre."

"I'd hope not," Sansa said with a laugh. "I just walked in front of thousands of people and practically screamed to them that I was a golden god, before executing nearly the entirety of the family which ruled them for thousands of years. Think any character like that would be quite insane, in your plays."

"Oh, I've acted my share of the insane," the princess replied with a wink, sidestepping a young Greyjoy king gleefully running down the stairs carrying a giant golden vase. "Do you think he'll do it? Build that Sept on Pyke?"

True to their word, the Ironborn had refrained from raiding the city, simply blockading the harbor and defeating the few defensive sorties from the last remaining bannermen in Oldtown, before opening the gates for her armies. And so they were taking what they'd been promised for their restraint, all the treasures of House Hightower...enough to mollify their unruly allies so that they could also forget in their lust for treasure another promise Sansa had wrested, for the apparently newly converted King and Queen would erect a great Sept on their home island, upon their return and the defeat of their uncle, perceived by the crowd as yet another miracle to mark her miraculous and blessed reign.

"I doubt it," the Queen answered, shaking her head. "I hope not, to be honest. It'd be a waste of all this plunder." Arriving at the top of the tower, the two women strode out to a small balcony overlooking the city. Gripping her hands against the stone, shaking as she looked down up past the tumultuous air between her dizzying height and all the world below, the realness and honesty of such great distances unfooled by the trick of her orations, Sansa thought it time to bring up a difficult question. "Edric and I will be returning to Starfall soon. We'll have a lot of...guests, I suppose, to bring back and situate in Dorne after this."

"They live," Daenery said coldly, Sansa sensing that perhaps behind her beautiful facade lay an even more ruthless heart than her own. "Many of us can't say the same. They'll thank you for your mercy, if not today, if not tomorrow, then one day, I'm certain of it."

They spoke of all the Hightower and Redwyne daughters and brides and children, along with the Tarly's, all of whom she did pity, that they would have to suffer for the duration of this war, perhaps the rest of their lives, for the crimes of their husbands and fathers. If only the Water Gardens remained, the once formerly beautiful gardens would provide a fitting sanctuary for the refugees, but such was the cost of war, in gold, and in souls. At least they did not need to fear for their lives like aunt Cersei and her cousins, Sansa had assured them, they were not hostages, there was no need for that now, with the war practically won...so long as they remained loyal to her and dared not ever betray her again.

"The army will march back north to Highgarden and complete the siege. Edric and I will meet them at Lady Jeyne's new castle." Carefully observing the way the Princess breathed, Sansa continued. "I don't except your brother Rhaegar to be alive by then."

The Targaryen Princess stared into the distance, eyes following a distant ship tracing its way from the harbor back east towards Dorne, or perhaps the great cities of Essos beyond, grand palaces where she'd once found sanctuary herself.

"I have a feeling," Daenerys began slowly, "that I will be the last dragon, after all of this is said and done."

"And your son."

"And yours," she reminded Sansa, who had honestly forgotten. The shorter woman turned back at the Queen, neck raised slightly to meet her eyes. "Do you miss him?"

"I suppose I haven't been the best mother," Sansa chuckled, "have I?"

"You haven't had much of a choice," Daenerys said, surprisingly coming to her defense.

"I do worry about Baelor," she said, this time it was the Queen's turn to be lost in contemplation, "alone in the capital with all its vipers."

"I would worry about Viserys." The silver haired Princess sighed. "I've no wish to see Rhaegar again, I've nothing to say to him either. Do whatever you have to do...or want to do, it matters not to me. But after that, Viserys could only believe that he stands second in line to the throne."

"It's concerning indeed." Nor was Daenerys's statement news to her, she had already taken the time to wonder what could happen, were the rogue Prince's handlers to lose their handle on the wretched dragonspawn...

And would she be secretly relieved, if they did let loose an untamed dragon one last time?

"I'm sending Samwell Tarly back north," Sansa quickly changed her tact, "with some of the Ironborn fleet. It'll be a treacherous journey, but I trust he will survive it." Her breathing paused, as she wondered the best way to broach the subject. "If Tywin Lannister is keen to stick his fingers into the currents of the realm, then I'd be curious to see just how far he'd be willing to test the waters."

"You're seeking his help?"

Sansa nodded. "I'd suspect he could have an influence on things, before the war's end. Or afterwards too."

The man who betrayed your father. The man who ordered the slaughter of your young niece and nephew.

"I'm no strangers to Lannisters," Daenerys said after yet another long pause. "I married one, after all, and I'm the mother to the heir to Casterly Rock...the future of House Lannister."

"Consider Lyonel the Lord of Casterly Rock," Sansa said, watching the sun approach its nadir along the calm, blue horizon, "Kevan Lannister's title has been attainted, by my words to you."

"Casterly Rock is his home," Daenerys said, letting breath a dormant fire hidden beneath her throat, "it's his only home, and his birthright. I'd think that...Lord Tywin ought understand, whatever befalls him in the wars to come, that he forfeited his rights to Casterly Rock when ordered the murder of two innocent children twenty years before. That whatever atonement he's already made, whatever atonement he could further make...nothing could ever change that fact."

"I understand," Sansa nodded, agreeing. "Casterly Rock is Lord Lyonel's home. As it is yours, too, as it will remain for all time to come."


Lone torches lit barren walls within the empty chambers of the ancient Hightower. Slowly, Sansa led the two women down the corridors, one torch in hand, towards a connecting tunnel to the rooms which typically sheltered more distant Hightower relations, modest quarters she had not allowed the Ironborn to loot. The new heirs to the castle would have to dwell here for the time being, until the wealth of House Stark of Oldtown became newly restored again.

"Quite the prize, isn't it," Sansa laughed, "an empty old castle?"

"Quite," her aunt muttered bitterly. In the short time they'd become reacquainted, Sansa had learned already that the Lady Cersei was not one for excessive gratitude.

"It won't remain empty forever," Sansa said, looking to the younger girl who stood to become one of the most powerful women in Westeros, should their war prevail.

"I'm sure we'll figure it out, mama," Myrcella said happily. Her cousin seemed to be the opposite of her mother, a pure soul, always joyful, always optimistic, never a foul word or mannerism uttered or shown.

"You won't have to wait long," Sansa said, turning to face them as she placed the torch into its holder inside a small solar, where several of the serving staff were setting up their supper and wine. They sat, and the Queen waited until they were alone. "The Ironborn have all your treasures now, much of your gold."

"Very generous," Cersei grumbled. "I suppose it's the price to pay for a city."

"Do you really think I would allow the slayings of my father and brother to go unpunished," Sansa said, the marked change in tone astonishing both women, even the more cynical Lady of Winterfell.

"You mean to turn on them," her aunt replied viciously, grasping quickly enough her intent, "is that what you're saying...Your Grace?"

"Theon Greyjoy and Yara Greyjoy are traitors," Sansa said coldly, as if pronouncing the sentence from atop the Iron Throne itself. "Every single Greyjoy is a traitor, every man or woman who fought my father and Lord Stannis in Rhaegar's Rebellion are not only traitors, they are kingslayers, all of them, so they will suffer the fate of traitors one day. Not now, while we need them. And perhaps they won't suffer too badly, given their aid to our cause. But trust me, Lady Cersei, Lady Myrcella, you know as well as I that the North remembers."

"Aye," Cersei Lannister said, laughing in a most unladylike manner, having been thrust from captivity to riches to poverty and back to the prospect of riches all over again. "Oh, I remember too, Your Grace, if you ever need any help remembering, don't you forget about your Aunt Cersei."

Sansa nodded approvingly. "Until then, I need the two of you to remain strong, rule the city, keep Oldtown together. I've asked the Princess Daenerys to leave Lord Roland and the Crakehall banners here, to serve as your muscle."

"I know old Roland," Cersei said dismissively. "Him I can work, I think."

"I know you were not particularly fond of the North," Sansa continued, shrugging off the woman's weak protestations. "I know my Uncle Benjen surely misses his dear family, but I also know he will understand the importance his children have now in the south. Whether you wish to return to Winterfell after the war, or remain south with your children...that's a decision you'll have to come to terms with together, as a family. But until then, your daughter needs you."

"We won't let you down, Your Grace," Myrcella said assuredly, looking to her mother in support. "I promise."

When she next spoke, the Queen addressed her cousin directly. "You saw the mob out there today, Myrcella. You saw how I used them, how I played them."

"Yes, disgusting people," Cersei said, nearly spitting up her food at their mention.

"Yes, disgusting," Sansa agreed, "dirty, vicious, cruel, greedy, bloodthirsty, inconstant, short-sighted, unreliable..."

They killed my mother. For no good reason, for no good reason at all.

"...yet," Sansa continued dutifully, "they are your greatest allies here, more crucial than any great house you may rally to your side. So you have to work with them, play them, manipulate them."

"How," Myrcella asked doubtfully. Sansa wondered just how well the innocent young girl could accomplish such things herself...which was exactly why she'd invited her mother to supper alongside her daughter.

"It becomes easy enough. You listen to what they want. You promise to give it to them, and they'll be eating out of your hand. If you can't deliver your promises, then lie to them, distract them, make up a new enemy for them to direct their ire towards, anyone but yourselves. Don't be satisfied with just telling them what they want, invent what they want next, in your mind, and tantalize them with it, dazzle them, blind them with your vision, your imagination. But you can't rule on empty promises forever, so keep them well fed, feed their greed, their licentiousness, make sure they're happy, but not too happy, so as to not need your rule, to not crave for themselves your love, as their mother, the mother of your people."

"I understand," the innocent girl said, lips trembling, though Sansa noticed it was her aunt who had stopped eating, even drinking, following instead her every word.

"Remember," the Queen finished, eyes placed keenly upon both women, "you'll have enemies here. As outsiders, as usurpers, intruders. As women, who would presume to usurp the thousand year old rule of men. Don't be afraid to be cruel, but don't overdo the cruelty, especially in the eyes the people. Because however many enemies you incur...so long as you have the people eating out of your hands...and there's more than enough people here for you to work with...you will always outnumber your enemies."

If only the Littlefinger had taught her this sooner, the Queen mulled, walking by herself to find Edric, hoping that he could help cast out the bitter taste in her mouth.


Edric

When he'd been younger, Ned Dayne always dreamed of bringing Talla to his family's castle, show her his ancestral home, the rooms and courtyards he grew up in. Dawn, the greatest and most famed sword in all the histories and lore of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, this was not the homecoming he'd ever imagined for the woman he once wished to take as his bride, arriving up the Torentine in a separate ship, confined, guarded by knights, escorted to a distant tower before he accompanied his Queen inside for her royal return to Starfall.

She'd same not a word to him about Talla, but Edric could sense she knew...well, something, he would not be surprised if the woman could read his mind, into the depths of his very soul. If so, could she guess at what he was about to do this morning?

He walked alone to the retrieve the great sword, mindful of the heavy burden of Ice already hanging from his belt, bloodied from the toils of both the battle, and perhaps the most gratuitous set of executions seen in the Seven Kingdoms since the era of the Mad King, or before that. No one had granted him the privilege of taking Dawn, of wielding it, of calling himself the Sword of the Morning, but what did it matter anyway, what honor was left in his heart, after he'd broken the most sacred bonds of guest rights on his Queen's behalf, against his liege lord and his family, no less, after he'd taken captive into his castle the woman he'd once loved, after destroying the only home Talla had ever known?

The day was cloudy, windy, the ocean's waves especially tumultuous, and Edric was glad of it. They were gathered in a circle by a small ledge atop a set of cliffs, where one false step would doom the strongest of men crashing down into the rocks below, wrung to death slowly inside the most violent eddies below the walls of Starfall. The Queen stood furthest from the edge, next to her sister, her friend the Lady Jeyne, her old and faithful former Queensguard, Ser Balon Swann, newly arrived from his release in the Black Cells, and Obara and Nymeria Sand, the two woman who'd kept to the two naked and shivering prisoners lying pathetically in the middle of the circle.

Edric stepped and took his place in the empty slot opposite his Queen, closest to the waters and the cliffs. Ser Balon was the first to see the second sword hanging by his side, one that was more revered than the Valyrian blades of either House Targaryen or House Stark, the latter clipped to his right hip. Then Arya recognized it too, and lastly, the bare and wretched dragon with the wilted legs who now lay uselessly below his feet.

It was the would be King who spoke first.

"Dawn."

No one answered him.

"By the grace of the Gods," Edric began chanting, "as bestowed upon their chosen warrior and sovereign, Queen Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name..."

"I knew Arthur," Rhaegar cried desperately. He wasn't begging for his life, Edric realized, he was actually angry, indignant, all the fallen dragon's ire directed at himself. Or if not his person, then the sword he'd carried down from the castle.

"...the charges being gross treason, heresy, conspiracy against the people, against the Faith, the destruction of the Great Sept, the massacre of untold hundreds of innocent and faithful men and women of the Gods..."

"Arthur loved me," Rhaegar continued shouting, interrupting him. "We were like brothers, your uncle and I! He gave his life for me!"

Does he want me to spare him? Or does he simply not want the sword of Arthur Dayne to be the instrument of his execution?

"...by the verdict of battle the Gods have delivered their sentence to their chosen Queen, who has charged her faithful Lord and servant to announce..."

"You're not worthy of him!" Next to his king, Jon Connington rolled one belly against the dirt, seemingly far more resigned to his death than Rhaegar. "You're not worthy of that sword, you're not worthy of Dawn, you're not worthy of your name!"

"I'm not worthy," Edric asked violently, the King's bellicosity finally interrupting his pronouncements.

The words emerged from the man's mouth as a hiss from a serpent. "You're not worthy to be named the Sword of the Morning. Arthur knows this, wherever he is, he'll curse you for this."

"You're right," Edric said, hissing back his reply in turn. "I'm not worthy of Dawn. And you're right, Arthur served you. Perhaps he did love you, see you as a brother."

Unsheathing the pale milky blade, he placed face of the sword between him and the condemned man, staring into his twisted reflection, sure that Rhaegar was doing the same.

"Did Arthur think of his love for you, when he abducted an innocent girl and kept her captive until her death?" Instead of meeting the King's eyes, he met Sansa's, and Arya's. Between them, smoke from the fire billowed against their shoulders. "Was Arthur truly worthy of the Sword, his name, when he watched the Mad King burn innocents, burn every man from Great Lords to innocent girls alike, was he worthy of Dawn then?"

He was screaming by the end. Calming himself, he broke the circle, walking away and tracing the edge of the cliffs with his feet.

"I imagine he hated himself," the young Lord of Starfall continued, speaking more to his own voice than the gathered crowd, "by the end of it all. He probably hated you too, he definitely hated the Mad King, that I don't doubt. But whatever his hatred, for his vows which saw suffer the very people he was sworn to protect...I think when death came, when King Eddard the Just rode to Dorne, my uncle was glad of it."

His grip loosening upon the sword, Edric nearly dropped the weapon, holding the tips of the hilt with only two fingers, Dawn dangling perilously over the violent chasm below.

"But he didn't have a choice, did he? Because of his vows, because of his sworn duty?" Swinging his head back, he met for the first time in his life the purple eyes of Rhaegar Targaryen. "I do. And here's my choice."

Without another word, he cranked back one shoulder and, gripping firmly, as if it were his own, the hilt of his family's ancestral sword for the first and last time, Edric Dayne hurled as far as he could the blade down into the ocean below. Whatever sound it made, whether it met rocks first, or fell straight into the churning waters, did not return to haunt his ears, or those of any who stood by the sea that morning.

All their eyes watched him in shock, even Sansa's, and Edric saw Balon Swann cry out audibly in dismay, having witnessed with his own eyes the destruction of the greatest sword ever or to be in the Seven Kingdoms. Down below, Rhaegar's expression was...indiscernible, unrecognizable, his jaw dropped, twisted against his own mouth, his fingers grown long like his father's holding its death like grip upon the wet dirt, as he had himself become the sword he was still trying to save in his mind.

Drawing Ice, he pointed the far heavier blade against the tip of Rhaegar's nose.

"Fuck Arthur Dayne. Fuck Dawn, fuck the Sword of the Morning. I don't care about vows, I don't care about the empty honor of kings, or the hypocrisy of knights who claim to be noble, who yet serve tyrants. I have my choice, and I've made it...I choose my Queen."

His eyes met Sansa's for the first time since he'd begun his outburst, and he saw what appeared to be pride, perhaps relief...and a devilish grin that bade him continue.

"I serve her knowingly, and happily. I don't hate myself, like Arthur must have, I love myself, I love my life, my service, my fealty. I don't pretend to be honorable, I don't pretend to be noble, I don't pretend anything, because I know only one truth...that of my Queen. If she asks me to kill, to maim, if she asks me to put to death every last man, woman, and child from Dorne to Castle Black, I'll do it, I'll do so happily, and I'll go to sleep happily each night beside her, satisfied that I've done the duty I've chosen for myself."

The blade had nicked against the King's nose just deep enough to have drawn the smallest droplet of blood. Remembering his most immediate duty, Edric locked eyes with the man his vaunted uncle had supposedly loved as a brother.

"In the name of the Queen, I sentence you to die."


Sansa

The words spoken, she turned, and one of the attendants handed her the heavy object. It was a brand, made in the shape of a direwolf, the sigil of her father, her family, glowing with otherworldly heat. Without a second's hesitation, Sansa walked carrying the object towards the naked form of her rapist and tormenter, kicked down his hips so that he lay upon his back, and imprinted the searing metal directly against his groin, squeezing prick and balls together into melting skin as the king cried out in infernal pain.

Lingering for about half a minute, she pressed it firmly against his body until the metal returned to something resembling its original color. Then she walked it back, one servant taking it to return it to the fire, another handing her a new glowing hot brand, ended in the shape of a trout, the sigil of her mother, her grandfather. This she pressed against Rhaegar's thigh, then another sigil, wolf again, she'd ordered five made for the occasion, against his other thigh, they turned him over, Arya took her turns, they alternated, then branded him together, until his back became covered with the sigils of those he'd wronged, trout and wolf evenly carving their charred form against his skin, each buttock receiving the mark for good measure.

"I thought dragons didn't burn," the Queen said bemusedly, loud enough for all to hear, even through Rhaegar's lingering shrieks, as she placed another brand against his stomach, gently now, so that her touch was not lethal, not this one, at least, the metal merely boiling slowly the linings of his abdomen. Then another trout for the left side of his chest, another wolf for the right side of his chest, a trout against shoulder, by this time he'd run out of screams, his breath barely perceptible, but still persisting, to the Queen's satisfaction, and that of her audience.

The last brand they handed her was a wolf. Next to his king, turned away in torment yet unable to escape the smell of Rhaegar's charred yet living corpse, Jon Connington wept quietly. She thought she ought wait longer, let the pain linger, but this was her day, and Sansa I Stark was not to be denied anything this day.

Taking the brand, she stamped it directly into the face of the dragon, pressing it down as hard as she could with both her arms and hands. Slowly but surely, she felt the heated pressure doing its work, the great enemy's face giving under her weight, his body and limbs spasming in every direction, giving voice to the agony that his throat was no longer capable of voicing. Then they handed her another brand, also a wolf, and she pressed it against the side of his head before she'd lifted the first one, and continued on, until finally she heard a sick, collapsing sound, nearly falling over as the skull of the arch villain finally caved within itself. Truly feeling the vigor of her exercise now, she frantically gestured for yet another brand, even though the job was done, the enemy dead, beyond any more pain she could inflict, yet she couldn't help herself as she pressed one last sheet of burning metal into the ruins of Rhaegar Targaryen, her own teeth grit so hard against itself that she feared they'd fall right out of her mouth.

Then it was done, and though the day remained fresh, the Queen felt so exhausted that she feared her body was about to, like Rhaegar's broken skull, collapse into itself. Turning without another word, Sansa walked alone back towards the castle. Instantly Edric was by her side, Arya by her other. Then, the Queen realized she'd nearly forgotten the matter of their other prisoner.

"Take Connington back to the cells," Sansa instructed. "Take his eyes and tongue tomorrow, before we march, have him gelded before you place him on the cross."

"We did this for our mother, our father, our brothers, those we loved and lost," Sansa whispered, as they walked back under the gates of Starfall. "Would they be proud of us, of what we just did?"

"Doesn't matter," she heard Arya shrug. "They're dead, we're not. They don't get to choose."


Lying in her lover's arms, Sansa felt content, at peace. Weary too, whatever had transpired in this bed tonight had been unlike anything she'd experienced before, likely never again. Running one thumb against the tender skin beside lining his abdomen, she wondered if she'd been able to cast from her all the venom which had welled inside her soul, ever since her Crown had stolen from her her innocence.

Probably not, but it was nevertheless a blessing to feel the illusion, if for only one more night.

"I know you had an affair with the Lady Talla," she said, whispering the words gently so as not to scare him, though Edric's frame couldn't help but shake in fright at the other woman's mention. "Don't worry, I don't care. I know whatever it was, it's in the past."

His eyes closed, Sansa wondering if he were presumptuous enough to feign at sleeping, rather than answer her.

"I loved her once," he answered unexpectedly, honestly. "Or at least, I thought I did. I don't know now."

"It's fine," she said, squeezing him arm in assurance. "We both loved others, before we met each other. We had different lives...we were different people, before."

The lids to his fine eyes reopened, but deep blue irises seemed distant, as if he'd not heard a word of what she'd just said.

"Maybe I was just in love with the idea of her. I'd met Talla at a tourney, my mother and father was there too. They both died of the sickness not long after that...that tourney, those nights in Blackmont, with them, with Talla...those were my last happy memories of the family I'd had...all of us, together."

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered. "I understand. The loneliness. But we have each other now."

"We do," Edric agreed sleepily. "Do you remember," he suddenly asked, raising his head up against his pillow, eyes alert again, "when you asked me, those first days we rode together, what I felt, when I killed someone?"

"I do."

"When Beric died, I felt sad too...but...not sad at the same time. Not as sad as I should've felt, I knew it. I missed him, I saw his face...his body, I almost cried...I wanted to cry...but I realized I just...just couldn't. Then, most of the time, I didn't think about him at all, except when I kept asking myself why I didn't think about him more, the man that practically raised me, taught me everything I knew about war, about life. I'd asked the same question many times, before I'd met you, why I didn't feel anything, when I killed? When I joked with Beric and Thoros and Brienne, when we rode and fought and ate and drank together...yet I left for my tent and slept each night thinking nothing else...except for how alone I was.

I thought I'd feel again, when I saw Talla, like I used to feel...with her, before my parents died. Perhaps I could've loved her, grown old with her, had children with her, lived a happy, fulfilling life. But it doesn't matter, she chose Loras Tyrell, she didn't choose me. You did, you chose me."

Sansa laughed nervously, listening to the man she loved who, after so many nights together, after so many rides and battles and camps, finally allowed himself to open entirely his heart to hers.

"To be fair, I didn't have much of a choice at the time."

"But you still chose me," Edric said, his voice rising, as intense as it had been when he'd thrown away his priceless ancestral sword for her sake that morning. "I meant what I said, Sansa, I choose you, we choose each other. When I'm with you, I feel...I feel everything, I can't help it, I can't control it...Gods...I need it, I need you."

This time, it was she who closed her eyes, needing a few minutes to comprehend everything he'd just confessed to her.

"Does this mean," she finally asked, raising her head to face his, "did you just tell me, in some strange Dornish way, that you love me?"

Her accusation caught him by surprise. Edric laughed, a light boyish sound that belied his age, despite his prowess, the long life he'd lived, the deepest recesses of his complexity that she'd never known of until this night, a fitting culmination to what might have been the strangest day of her life. Strangest day to date, at least.

"I guess it does. You're right. I love you. I don't think I love you, I don't pretend to love you, I couldn't not love you, even if it were the death of me, I can't help it, I can't stop it, and I don't want to. I love you."

"I love you too," Sansa said tenderly, the way she'd said the words to Trystane. The way she'd always imagined saying the words to Loras Tyrell, the way she'd foolishly wasted them on Lancel Lannister, all dead men.

Rather than lean towards him to kiss him as he'd been expecting, Sansa raised her body so that she was half sitting up on their bed, her breasts openly revealed for all the world to admire, be they men or gods. "I guess this settles it then. We marry."

"Marry," Edric's eyes widened. "When?"

"Now."

"Now?"

"You heard me in Oldtown, I practically claimed to be the living incarnation of every god from the Father down to the Maiden. So in my eyes, we're married the moment I decide we are, by my divine authority, no one else's."

Only now did she lean back down to kiss him, to seal the sanctity of their marriage in their hearts. Then she collapsed back onto his chest, feeling the weight of the day about to bury her.

"We never slept together you know," she heard him whisper, when she'd nearly drifted off to sleep, "Talla and I."

"Hmmm." She didn't care, she was so tired.

"We kissed...we touched each other a little...but there was nothing else, I swear."

"I told you, I don't care, it's not like I was some blushing maiden our first night together." But then an itch nagged inside her mind, and wouldn't let go. "So who was your first then, I'm just curious."

The lack of an answer woke her back up.

"Don't tell me you were a maiden that first night?!"

"Uh, I...I was never married to anyone..."

"But you didn't fuck some village girl," she asked, wondering if he was blushing in the darkness of the night. "Not some whore, some miller's daughter?"

"I told you," Edric replied defensively, "I didn't care about anything, not girls, not killing...not even Dawn, truly. I pretended, but...thinking about it now, I'm not even sure if I'd been alive then, anything more than a breathing wight."

"Then maybe I'm not completely full of shit," the Queen answered, chuckling gently. "Maybe I am a God, the Stranger incarnate, if I can bring the dead back to life."

"If you believe it, I believe it. And we'll win this war together, because we believe it." As he answered her, Sansa thought his voice sounded firm, stolid, the voice of a man, the most feared and respected soldier in all seven kingdoms, his reputation growing by the day, Dawn or not.


"Father. Smith. Warrior..."

There was only Arya and Jeyne for her. No one for Edric, a stark and tragic reminder of his confessions to her the night before. The Septon they'd found from a nearby village up the Torentine, too aged years before to have traveled the Sept when it fell. Despite her proclamations towards divinity, the ceremony they had to conduct the sake of royal propriety, because against both their wishes, there did exist a world outside their own. Not that, holding each other's hands, staring into each other's eyes, feeling only love surrounding her, surrounding their small circle, Sansa did not treasure this rare and special moment, tainted as it was by the false religion she'd become the greatest champion for.

Somewhere far in the woods behind them, Jon Connington screamed as Obara and Nymeria prepared him for their coming march. Sansa did not need to be there for it, this was not the time for pain, this was the time for them, for love, for the last she had of her family, whether by blood or not.

"...I am yours, and you are mine."

With their kiss, she thought, they sealed the rebirth of a great dynasty, the greatest one yet to be recorded in the histories of all Seven Kingdoms, or any vast continents beyond.