January-February, 303 AC

"How is it my nameday already?"

Olyvar groaned, holding his head in his hands. His eyes stared blearily at the many drafts of letters cluttering their writing desk; in the distance the red temple's bells rang the ninth hour of the day. She was glad that the days were beginning to lengthen again, now that the solstice was come and gone.

Sansa gazed upon her husband's tousled waves of steel-grey hair, her fingers itching to comb out the tangles. "Shall we to the sept?" She offered, yawning as she got out of bed and pulled on her bedrobe. Buttons chirped as he leaped down with her, rubbing his soft fur against her ankles as she scratched his ears. "Perhaps lighting another to the Crone might help."

"A sweet thought, my lady, but no. I already lit candles at the Hour of the Crone."

While Sansa enjoyed rising with the dawn, her husband oft stayed up late, reading or playing cyvasse or whatever else struck his fancy, and as such, preferred to sleep a few hours past sunrise, like most nobles did. Olyvar must be more anxious than she thought, if he was already awake at sixth hour to pray and make offerings. The swan ships would depart tomorrow, carrying reports and letters written in code, bound for Sunspear and Winterfell. The reports were finished, as were the personal letters to their kin, but the letters to their liege lords...

With a sigh Sansa draped herself over Olyvar's shoulders, her chest pressing against his back as she embraced him lightly, then kissed the top of his head. It was the same comfort she might give Robb or Arya, yet it was not received the same. Her husband flinched away, giving an uneasy laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"You, uh, startled me, my lady," said Olyvar.

"My apologies, ser," said Sansa.

"Mrr!" said Buttons, and launched himself onto Olyvar's lap, completely unconcerned with two-legger business.

A pot of tea already sat on the table, as did two cups, one drunk down to the dregs, the other clean and empty. As she poured steaming tea into both cups, Sansa eyed her husband from beneath her eyelashes. He did not look startled. He looked uncomfortable. His cheeks were a darker golden than usual, as were the tips of his ears, and his breathing was oddly ragged.

"Breathe in and count to four," she told him, the soft sound of Arya's voice echoing in her head. With a beleaguered look Olyvar obeyed, following her count as he drew a long, steady breath, then let it back out.

"That's my job," he said, when his breaths were calm and even. Almost absentmindedly he began petting the purring ginger cat.

"And why should I not return the favor?" She contemplated his cup, then added several spoonfuls of sugar before placing it in front of him. "Truly, it is a relief, to help you as you have helped me."

"At least I've helped someone," he muttered. A few sips of tea soon perked him up, and Olyvar began sorting the letters into piles. "If Daenerys reads these letters I'll have helped us all into our graves."

"She won't read them," Sansa said, with a confidence she did not quite understand. She knew she was right, but why? For a moment she hesitated, thoughts churning as she considered what she knew from her time with the queen and from her time slipping inside the skins of Buttons and the other animals that roamed the pyramid.

"The risk of being caught is too great, Queen Daenerys might lose what chance she thinks she has of winning support from Dorne. Her spymaster is a red priest who reads flames, not a eunuch who reads letters. And..." she plucked at the end of her braid as she thought, slipping loose the leather tie as she began unweaving the braid. "What are we to her, when she has so many other concerns?" Her lips tightened. "Daenerys thinks you weak, she's made that clear enough."

"She may be right."

"She is not," Sansa flared. "Would a weakling have faced the Mountain? Would a craven have dared free me from the Lannisters' clutches, or sail across the sea to face the Mother of Dragons?"

"That's different."

She stared at Olyvar, at the air of despondence and defeat hanging off him like a lover. She meant to hold her tongue, but indignant fury overwhelmed her and the words spilled out. "Pride may be a sin, but so is false humility. Do you think my lord father never doubted himself, never feared the outcome of his actions? Every day and night he served as Hand was a torment, yet he persisted nonetheless. King Robert never fretted over anything; would you say that made him strong?"

She could feel the blood rushing to her face, her cheeks hot as the hearth, yet she could not stop. "You would be thrice the king that Robert was, and it would be because you nurture doubts, because you actually give a damn!"

I didn't mean to say that. Horrified, Sansa covered her mouth with her hands, wishing she could melt into the floor. Now it was Olyvar's turn to stare at her, as wide-eyed as if she'd taken his spear and stabbed him through the heart.

"Oh, what a queen you'd be," he sighed in a wistful tone. Then it was his turn to blush, and he cleared his throat. "Not that you will be, of course. Unless..." He paused, looking very angry with himself. "No. I swore you would be free to annul the marriage as soon as we step foot in the Seven Kingdoms, and I am no oathbreaker." He stood. "I may have promised to spar with Deziel, if you will excuse me?"

He bowed, and fairly ran out the door before she could think of what to say. Sansa wished him luck sparring in his bed slippers; hopefully Ser Deziel had a pair of shoes to loan her runaway knight. May have, indeed. That he survived months in King's Landing without revealing himself was an utter marvel. A true knight, and my husband, but only for the nonce, she thought sadly. At least she could keep him whilst they remained across the sea; Seven forbid Daenerys should get the notion of taking a second prince consort as her ancestors once took a second queen.

Yet if she refused to leave him... if she stood by him and became his queen... Sansa rested her elbows on the table, and cupped her face in her hands. She'd passed many long hours dwelling upon where her duty lay. Robb's letters did not speak of annulments and betrothals, but his displeasure with her marriage seeped through his words all the same. He was her brother, her king, and it was his right to give her hand in marriage. Hadn't she told Arya that marriage alliances were how they might help Robb avenge their father? And now Arya was resigned to a betrothal she despised, promised to a man who'd said she should have called her guards, not slit Ramsay Snow's throat herself. How could Sansa let her sister do that which she was not willing to do herself?

But then, Arya had not sworn to the old gods, not as she had. Sansa shivered as she remembered leaves whispering of blood and tears, of a direwolf and a queen. The old gods had heard her childish prayers, they had given her power, they had given her seeds so she might repay their gift. And she planted them faithfully, until she lost her seeds, until she'd been dragged back to the Red Keep in chains. Even then Sansa tried to uphold her oath; for months she'd sacrificed to the weirwood, desperate to bring forth fruit and seeds, yet she'd spilled her blood to no avail. At least Ellaria said the seven weirwood cuttings were growing well in Sunspear, though the gardeners remained unsettled at her request that they anoint the roots with offal from the butchers.

She'd dared not try to bring a sapling aboard the ship, and to her dismay no weirwoods grew along the Dragon's Bay. Was that why slipping her skin grew harder as the long months dragged by? Were the old gods angry with her for abandoning their trees and their lands? Or was it a sign that they wanted her to consummate her marriage with Olyvar, and so uphold her sacred oath? Again she remembered a barren hill top ringed with stumps, red eyes shining like blood in a bone-white face. Weirwood child, wolf child, the dwarf woman said, the queen and her sworn sword. The sworn sword was Arya; didn't that mean the queen must be Sansa? The thought terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.

Selfish girl, an elegant voice whispered, each syllable pregnant with malice. Duty does not make your pulse race and your belly quiver. Oaths do not fill your dreams with wanton desires and lewd imaginings. The little dove is no more than a cat in heat, desperate for some man to slake her lust.

"M'lady? Did you still want your bath?"

Sansa turned. Steam rose from a copper tub filled nigh to the brim with hot water. Gilly stood beside it, one hand holding a leatherbound tome, the other keeping hold of Samrik, lest he start splashing.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Gilly."

While the maid helped her out of her bedrobe and her shift, Sansa listened patiently as Samrik counted to ten, first in northron, then in the common tongue, sometimes pausing to babble happy nonsense or clap his chubby hands. By the time Sansa slid into the tub, he'd moved on to following Buttons around the room, the cat keeping just out of reach lest he suffer a yanked tail.

The warmth of the bath curled around Sansa like a cloak as Gilly began to read aloud from the book, hesitantly as usual. The gods only knew why a wildling maid was so set on reading, but at least it gave Gilly something to do when she lacked other employment. Besides, the sound of her voice was soothing, like falling rain or leaves rustling in a breeze.

The sound of a roaring, cheering crowd outside her window was less soothing, though not surprising. The queen must have set out for a morning ride. By now surely every freedman in Meereen knew Queen Daenery's face, with how often she rode through the city. Could the smallfolk of King's Landing say the same of Cersei? Somehow, Sansa felt rather dubious about that. How shocked she'd been, those long months at the hollow hill, when one by one the smallfolk told her they'd never seen a high lord. Only a few had ever seen the petty lord whose land they tilled; those who labored in his fields were watched by the same bailiffs who collected the rent, paid in abushels of grain, chickens, fish, and so on.

A lord's reputation came from his judgments, from the sort of bailiffs he kept, from the reports of the servants who worked in his keep. The clubfoot smith, Ronnel, had sung the praises of Lord Jonos Bracken, who, despite his whoring, was known for giving his folk a fair hearing when they came before him. He'd been proud to see his sons fight under the red stallion banner, much as he feared for them. Meanwhile, Anguy the archer had left the Dornish marches for fear of Lord Ashford's bailiffs, who cut off the hands of thieves and put out the eyes of poachers. When Sansa asked why he'd not appealed to Lord Ashford when he held court, Anguy's bitter laugh was so long it turned to tears. Then there was Celia, the old grandmother from Sherrer, who wept not a single tear after the Mountain slew the knight of her holdfast. All knew Ser Pate beat his maids as if they were dogs; her own nephew had lost his betrothed to a hard blow to the head from a mailed fist.

It wasn't right. The Seven-Pointed Star commanded the low to serve and obey, and the high to rule, but being highborn didn't mean you could just do whatever you wanted. A king owed justice to his vassals, and lords and ladies owed justice to their smallfolk. As Lady of the Hollow Hill, Sansa had done her utmost to rule her people wisely, and she was only a girl then. Even so, she'd taken charge of running her tiny fief, making sure everyone had food and clothing, settling disputes, setting out what tasks needed doing to keep them all safe. The men fought and hunted, the women sewed and spun, the children regained their strength and spirit, and by the end every one of them wore one of her weirwood leaves, a token of her love and a prayer for the old gods to watch over them.

She wished she knew what had become of her folk, of little Theo and gangly Tarber and Shirei of the many sisters. Their faces were slowly fading from her memory; would she even remember them, were she to meet them once more? On a whim she'd begun sketching them all, as she would sketch a design for her needlework. Unfortunately, faces proved much harder than plants and animals and sigils. After months of practice she remained unsatisfied with her attempts, and when Robett Glover beseeched her to draw his wife and children, she'd nearly refused. Only his desolate longing had convinced her, and even then, she felt ashamed of her efforts, though he thanked her all the same.

Sansa smiled to herself. By the grace of the old gods and the new, she'd thought to mention it to Robb in her last letter. When the swan ships returned, they brought not only letters from Winterfell, but several painted miniatures from Deepwood Motte, commissioned by the King in the North as a token of his thanks for Robett Glover's good service. The memory of Robett Glover's crushing embrace was some balm for her guilt at keeping him here, so far from hearth and home.

It was her fault, after all. The King in the North would not consent to leaving his sister in Dornish hands, so as long as she remained in Meereen, so must Robett. Truth be told, his presence did make her feel slightly safer, what with the Kingslayer having free rein of the pyramid. She could not forget the cold water of the God's Eye dripping down her breasts and belly, nor the chafing of rope against her wrists; even a brief glimpse of Jaime Lannister was enough to set her pulse racing from fear. Thank the Seven, she saw him little, for he kept to the training halls and yards, sparring anyone and everyone at all hours of the day and night.

Gooseprickles ran up her arms as she remembered the fury with which the Kingslayer fought, his left hand growing more deadly by the day. It was not right. Lannister should have been brought to justice long ago, yet even Olyvar could not deny that they might have need of him. Not that it stopped Glover from threatening Lannister with a beating whenever he got within a hundred yards of Sansa, a habit which she could not find the will to discourage.

She prayed Robett Glover would remain so devoted after Olyvar spoke to him of his plans. Would he see the merits of alliance as Sansa did? Surely Glover wished to see the Lannisters cast down, surely he wished for the utter overthrow of those who'd slain Lord Eddard and tried to slay King Robb. If not, she must make him see, she must win him to their cause, using all the courtesy and wits of a true lady, a true princess. A true queen, a voice within her whispered.

Sansa drew her knees up to her chest, the water gently sloshing about her. At some point it had begun to go cold while she sat lost in thought. Seven help her, she wanted to be queen. She would be a good one, as good as good Queen Alysanne. She could hardly be worse than Cersei, whose pride and arrogance blinded her to aught else. Nor would she be like Daenerys, who could justify any cruelty she thought necessary to protect the freedmen she called her children.

Suddenly she was being doused with water. Sansa gasped with shock as the frigid stream soaked her from head to chest.

"M'lady?" Gilly said, uncertain, an empty pitcher clutched in her hands. "Were you not ready to rinse? It's been ages."

"It's fine," Sansa replied, teeth chattering as she hugged herself tight. What was she thinking? She knew nothing of what Cersei was like when she first wed King Robert; perhaps she too had yearned to become queen, before being hardened by years of misery. And as for Daenerys, why, Sansa could not even imagine the barbarous savagery she endured as a young khaleesi.

Sansa was not sure how old the queen was when she wed; perhaps sixteen? Queen Daenerys turned seventeen shortly after they reached Meereen, but Sansa was not quite clear on the events which preceded their arrival. All she knew was that Daenerys wed a khal, the khal killed her brother, and then, for some reason or other, a witch killed both the khal and Daenerys' unborn babe. Then Daenerys had hatched three dragons from the ashes of the witch's funeral pyre, before taking first Astapor, then Meereen. Had Sansa grown up without proper guidance only to be thrown into the most perilous of circumstances, would she share Daenerys' ruthless nature?

The queen did not seem ruthless that night when she graced Olyvar's nameday feast with her presence. Queen Daenerys was in an amiable temper; no word of complaint crossed her lips at the banquet of Dornish and Westerosi delicacies, nor did she carelessly slip from the common tongue into High Valyrian as she was sometimes wont to do. When the mummers performed the tale of Florian the Fool and Jonquil the Fair, it was to the sound of Daenerys' laughter. When a storyteller recounted the trials faced by Lady Shella and her rainbow knight, it was to the sound of Daenerys' sighs.

"I must admit, this is a pleasant way to pass an evening," Daenerys said, lightly sipping at her wine as the servants cleared the sweets and nuts and cheese. Her violet eyes gleamed in the torchlight, their look as sweet and innocent as that of a blushing maid. "Although I cannot stay much longer."

Prince Consort Aegor tensed at her words, a shadow passing over his face. "Surely we can remain a while yet," he said, placing a hand over his wife's. "There is still the presentation of the gifts." He dropped his voice lower, so that his words were for her ears alone. "Our gift will be well received; will you not remain so that they may show their appreciation for your generosity?"

"We see so little of you, my queen," Sansa added, pretending she had not heard.

"And the prince has been very mysterious about your graces' gift," said Olyvar.

The queen shifted in her seat, then smiled indulgently. "I suppose." She looked at the floor, where Edric Dayne was carefully setting out a high harp and a chair. "I thought we were done with our diversions; is it not time for the gifts?"

"Your grace is quite right, of course." Sansa glanced down the table; a nod and a smile and the first of the Dornishmen rose to present their gifts.

As was custom, the ladies went first. From Jynessa Blackmont, Olyvar received new quill pens made from the most magnificent of feathers; from Jennelyn Fowler a book about the reigns of the greatest Rhoynar kings; from his sister Nymeria came an ornate vial filled with water taken from Mother Rhoyne; from Brienne of Tarth a chain which bore the seven icons of the Seven, each wrought in silver or gold and set with tiny gems. When Lady Toland presented a tome on the proper raising of children Olyvar nearly choked on his wine, provoking general laughter when the next gift, from Deziel Dalt, proved to be several bottles of wine from Dorne, all his favorites, and all very hard to obtain on this side of the Narrow Sea.

Olyvar gave profuse thanks for each gift, ignoring the growing signs of the queen's impatience for her turn. He praised Perros Blackmont's thoughtfulness when presented with a ream of fine paper and jars of good ink, he admired at length the workmanship of the dagger from Ser Gulian Qorgyle and the spurs from Ser Symon Wyl, and did not even twitch when Ser Symon remarked that he'd like to see Ser Olyvar put them to good use.

"Of course, my good ser, but now is not the time." Olyvar turned, favoring her with a curious smile that set her skin to tingling. "I believe it is time for Princess Sansa's gift."

All eyes were upon her as she rose from her seat, smoothing her skirts of deep blue silk. Sansa had prepared for this for weeks; there was no need to be nervous. Head held high, she made her way to where the high harp waited. With the ease of long practice she settled herself on the chair, tilting the harp so its familiar weight rested on her shoulder.

"In honor of our beloved Ser Olyvar Sand," she announced to the waiting audience. "I present a song ne'er heard before, one of my own composition. It is a song of sorrow and of joy, of love and duty, and I hope you will find it worthy of your hearing."

Sansa's fingers moved across the strings, coaxing forth a sweet, slow melody. The room was silent but for the harp, and for the sound of her voice when she began to sing. She poured her heart into every word, into Naerys' yearning and Prince Aemon's anguish, even into King Aegon's jealousy at the love betwixt his hated wife and brother. How he despised their love, he who never loved anyone but himself. She almost pitied King Aegon.

By the time poor Prince Aemon perished in defense of his unworthy brother, half the room had tears glistening on their cheeks. The rest of them wept for Naerys' lament, and when the song ended, half the lords and ladies on the dais rose to their feet, clapping their approval, and her husband clapped the loudest of them all.

She returned to her seat with a glad heart, her stomach fluttering wildly when Olyvar smiled and kissed her hand. He liked the song, he did, just as she'd hoped; even the queen interrupting his praise to present her nameday gift could not douse the spark of hope burning in her breast.

"The idea was that of the prince consort," Daenerys said as one of her Dothraki, the tall bloodrider named Rakharo, brought forth a small chest, magnificently carved with flowers and vines. "The Great Masters spent centuries hoarding treasures beneath their pyramids, letting those not on display gather dust."

She waved her hand, and Rakharo opened the chest.

At first Sansa was not quite sure what she was seeing. A pile of dark metal lay upon a cushion of crimson velvet. There were trinkets and chains that might have been tarnished silver, spear heads and hiltless blades that might have been steel, if not for the fact that they were dark as smoke. Sansa's eyes widened, but it was Ser Symon Wyl who spoke first.

"Valyrian steel."

"You have a good eye, ser," said the queen, making no effort to hide her enjoyment of Olyvar's stunned silence as he gaped at the open chest and its jumble of priceless spellforged steel. "Of course Blackfyre belongs to Prince Aegor, but it is only fitting that Ser Olyvar should have a blade of equal quality, if not renown."

"Her grace commanded that her new lords search their vaults," said Aegor. "You may have the blade forged as you please; as I was not sure whether you would prefer sword or spear, I leave the decision to you."

"You honor me." There was a strange look in Olyvar's eyes. "Both with the gift of steel, and the gift to choose how it shall be shaped."

Aegor nodded stiffly; to her surprise, Olyvar rose and embraced him like a brother. Only then did he bow to Daenerys and begin expressing the depths of his gratitude.

The rest of the evening passed with talk of nothing else but of Valyrian steel. Queen Daenerys fairly glowed as the Dornish exclaimed over the gift, their thanks almost as effusive as Olyvar's. It was an extravagant gift, far beyond anything Sansa might have expected. Her cheeks almost hurt from smiling by the time the feast ended, her hopeful mood faded away to almost nothing. No one talked of her song, not when there was a king's ransom in Valyrian steel sitting in the hall.

"I'm glad you liked the song," Sansa whispered when they were abed, unable to resist one last attempt.

"I did," he said, his tone soft and sleepy. "Why Aemon and Naerys?"

Her heart soared as if it had wings. "Because... because there is much to learn from them."

"True," Olyvar yawned. "Like maybe, if a king is a bullying tyrant, his kingsguard should 'accidentally' let his enemies gut him and then beg the gods' forgiveness."

Her heart plummeted. "That wasn't what I meant."

"A poor jape, my lady." He opened his eyes, her heart melting at the tenderness of his gaze. The tip of his tongue caressed his full lips, her breath caught in her throat as he leaned toward her -

And kissed her on the forehead.

"The lesson was duty," he said as he pulled away, closing his eyes.

No, it wasn't, Sansa wanted to scream as he rolled over, turning his back to her. Had he not heard the lines that spoke of how happy Aemon and Naerys might have been, were Aegon born second or never born at all? She could not kiss Olyvar as she wanted, she could not abandon her oath by begging him to consummate their marriage, but if her husband pressed his rights of his own accord... why, that would be different. No one could blame her if she yielded to his ardor; everyone knew the Mother made women lustful so they would enjoy making children. When at last Sansa fell asleep, it was to dream of strong arms pulling her close and smooth lips kissing her senseless.

The next afternoon found Sansa in a humor almost as bleak as the weather. Foul winds came howling out of the west, ripping the leaves from trees and lashing the windows with rain. Good, she thought, letting the flow of her ladies' talk ripple over her as she stitched away. The sight of falling leaves pleased her; most of the trees in Meereen did not change colors or lose their leaves like the trees at home.

Olyvar's mood likely matched her own, though he was the soul of courtesy as he prepared to address her ladies. He'd spent the morning speaking to the lords in Ser Symon Wyl's solar, divulging the contents of the letters now sailing towards Sunspear, and taking oaths of secrecy from each, sealed with a drop of blood. When he began to speak Sansa put her sewing aside, listening attentively as he explained his decision and the reasoning behind it.

He spoke well, no one could deny that. Small wonder, when her husband had spent hours drafting and practicing his remarks, making sure each word was thoughtfully chosen. At the very end he'd had Sansa listen to him rehearse the entire thing, and then asked for her opinion. Olyvar's gallantry amused her, given that he'd peppered her with questions while he wrote, tweaking his words when they did not suit his intended meaning.

So much contemplation went into so few words, she thought, trying not to smile at her husband's particular charm, that compelling union betwixt shy earnestness and steadfast resolve. Still, even her pathetic infatuation was not enough to distract her for long.

It was a speech as straightforward as its speaker. Olyvar thanked the ladies for their generous gifts of the night before, for their enduring loyalty, and for their forebearance with a journey so much longer than expected. He went on to brief them on the reports he'd sent to Arianne, why as yet it was impossible to determine whether Daenerys Targaryen would prove friend or foe, and why he believed she would prove ill-suited to the Iron Throne.

"However," Olyvar said softly, catching her eye for a moment before turning back to the ladies. "I would know your thoughts, lest I have erred. Ought we take Daenerys as our queen?"

"Nay," said Jynessa, certain as the sunrise.

"Not I," said Nymeria, her eyes flashing.

"Never," said Lady Toland, as the rest of the ladies shook their heads.

"I thank you for your counsel; the lords said the same. So be it." A muscle twitched in Olyvar's jaw. "The Lannisters have usurped the Iron Throne, their puppet a bastard boy crowned in defiance of all the laws of gods and men. Ought we take Tommen as our king?"

This time the voices rang out as one. "Nay!"

"So be it." And her heart bled for her husband, for she knew the words that came next, inexorable, inevitable, inescapable. "Then kneel, and pledge fealty, if you would have me as your king."

For a moment the world stood still. Then Lady Nymeria rose from her chair and dropped to her knees. Next rose Lady Toland, then the others, even Brienne, whose brow had furrowed more and more as Olyvar spoke, yet who looked up at him as though she looked upon the Father himself.

"I too, lord husband," Sansa said as she rose, last of all, and knelt upon the hard brick floor. "Though I cannot speak for my kingly brother, I pledge my eternal friendship in the sight of the old gods and the new, and do solemnly vow to do all that is in my power to bring about an alliance betwixt your people and mine."

"And I vow to be worthy of such alliance," her husband said, his eyes soft, "and to do my utmost to ensure peace between our people. This I swear by the old gods and the new. Please, rise, my faithful lady wife."

Lady Toland twitched at that, but her voice was clear and smooth as she swore her oath, pricking her finger with a needle to seal the vow in blood. The others followed suit, and when all were once more seated, Olyvar continued.

Much as he wished they might sail for Westeros on the morrow, such haste was neither possible nor prudent. It would take time and skillful diplomacy to extract themselves from the dragon queen's court without giving offense. First they must determine what to offer Daenerys in exchange for her friendship. The ladies promised to keep their eyes and ears open whilst Olyvar made careful inquiries of the prince consort. Sansa would help too, keeping watch with her cats and dogs, but the ladies needn't know about that. If they could depart Meereen in peace that would be enough; if they were exceptionally lucky, Daenerys might agree to lend them her support. Gold or soldiers was most likely, though perhaps she might ride to war with them upon a dragon, should she tame Drogon before their departure.

The black dragon had been seen more often of late, usually near wherever Daenerys was at the time. When Sansa asked Viserion to shed some light on the matter, he informed her that Drogon could sense the Mother of Dragons, much as he could sense both his mother and Olyvar. That was all he deigned to say before baring his teeth in a silent laugh; the white dragon had pouted like a spoiled child when the sight of his teeth failed to make her shy back as she usually did. She was half-tempted to shed her skin and show the big bully what direwolf teeth looked like.

At the moment, however, she must smile with the teeth of a highborn maid. Her ladies needed to see that Princess Sansa was perfectly tranquil, unafraid of the perilous oaths they'd sworn in the pyramid of the dragon queen. On a whim she called for Gilly, and by the time Olyvar finished the maid returned bearing little Sylva Toland. Though two-and-a-half, and long since weaned, the babe remained very fond of her wet nurse, and proved quite reluctant to leave Gilly's arms. No one was surprised when Sylva began toddling around the chamber on wobbling legs, looking about with a scowl on her chubby cheeks.

"Kith?" She lisped, looking up at Sansa. "Want Kith!"

"Princess," Lady Toland reminded her great-niece, scooping her up with plump, matronly arms. "You should say 'have you seen Kit, princess?' Come on, my clever one, try to say it for me."

"Pincess!"

"Close enough, I think," Sansa smiled. "Samrik is on the terrace, sweetling."

"Kith!" Sylva yelled. As soon as her great-aunt released her, she ran off, little legs pumping; she only just avoiding crashing into Brienne's legs.

"How soon do you think our letters will arrive?" Jynessa Blackmont asked, taking up her book. "Ser Gulian thought perhaps two months, as they will not be making the trader's circle of the Jade Sea."

"One can hope," Olyvar put in, having not yet left the room. "Quhuru Mo thought seven weeks; Chatana Qhoru thought nine more likely, depending upon the weather."

"It will be seven," said Brienne. "The gods send fair winds to those whose cause is just."

Kind as the sentiment was, it proved a source of great anxiety a few weeks later. That was the day the swan ships limped back into Meereen's harbor, pursued by raging storms that had snapped their yardarms, ripped their sails, and tangled their rigging into knots.

"Are the gods angry?" Olyvar asked, doing his best to pace a hole through the Myrish rug that lay on the floor of their chamber. Light danced over the ten-headed golden snake that adorned his tunic, making it look as if their tongues were flickering. "Autumn storms are common yes, but even so... the ships looked like they'd been gnawed upon by some malevolent beast. Is it a sign from the heavens that I have erred, that I should burn the letters and start afresh?"

"Were the chests damaged?"

Olyvar furrowed his brow in thought, still pacing. "I... no, they were not. All three were unharmed, though every ship took on water; Anise Breeze came so near to sinking that her captain joined the men at their bailing, and him a man near seventy." He halted, stroking his chin with as he thought. Of late he'd begun growing a beard; thus far it was a patchy thing with hairs both black and the deep grey of Valyrian steel. "Yet the letters were still dry..." A hesitant smile lit his face, the sight of it setting Sansa's heart aflutter.

"The gods are good; let the storms rage as they please. Perchance there is some trouble the swan ships shall avoid thanks to the delay. Chatana is determined to overhaul her entire ship, and the rest of the captains are like to do the same."

Many ships might struggle to afford such heavy repairs, but not these. Princess Arianne's letters contained a lengthy accounting of the profits made thus far from the fleet's circuit of the Jade Sea, more than they'd dared dream of, profits that might aid in preparing for winter and overthrowing the Lannisters. Alas that there would not be another circuit, not with a corsair king prowling the Cinnamon Straits.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. "Must you ask her tonight?"

Olyvar sighed, and crossed the room in a few long strides. Then he was squatting down before her chair, lightly pressing his forehead to hers. "You know I must. I have delayed too long already. If the worst be true... well, forewarned is forearmed, at least. The queen still suspects nothing?"

"I don't know," Sansa confessed, blushing both from shame and from her husband's closeness. "I only overhear snatches of conversation, and she speaks of us so rarely. Earlier this afternoon she told Lady Irri she thought the Westerosi more good humored of late." Thank goodness for Lady Jhiqui, whose silky-eared lapdog was as amiable as his mistress.

"Lady Irri wondered what had changed, so I had Hoyali flop at her feet and show his belly." It had been fun, wagging their tail and begging with their eyes, and oh, being petted felt so lovely... Sansa got ahold of herself. "When the queen and her ladies finished lavishing him with attention, they spoke of the freedmen and their troubles with the guilds."

"The prince consort been fretting over that too," Olyvar said, groaning slightly as he rose back to his full height. "Something about entry fees and the methods being used to test their skills? Aegor insisted on going for a long ride when the rain paused this morning, and what with the wind and him either trailing off or rambling at length about local peculiarities, I had difficulty following. I don't think I've ever seen him so flustered. I hope he's in better form by the time we join them for dinner."

As it turned out, Aegor was not. Both the prince consort and the queen looked ghastly in their silks, deep hollows sunken beneath their eyes, their pale skin turning sallow. More than once Daenerys lost the thread of conversation, leaping from the upcoming election of triarchs in Volantis to the ongoing discord in Qohor. Although the slave revolt was long since stamped out, it seemed that the High Priest of the Black Goat, who'd personally tortured and slain hundreds of rebellious slaves, had gone missing.

"He slept on the topmost floor of the temple," said Daenerys, a feverish look in her violet eyes. "A room without windows, guards at every door, yet he vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a pile of ashes in his empty bed. Moqorro was little help; all he would say was that the Lord of Light was a perilous foe."

Sansa and Olyvar shared a nervous glance.

"Your Grace is fortunate to have the red temple's support." The flatbread was cold; Sansa nibbled at it anyway.

"Princess Sansa speaks the truth," Olyvar added, gallant as ever. "Meereen loves Your Grace well. I—"

"Then why do they not show their love by listening to my edicts?" Daenerys interrupted, her voice plaintive. "The guilds foment rebellion, the Shavepate cannot speak two words without complaint, even my Unsullied grow quarrelsome! Khal Rhogoro tries to steal my Jhiqui away to make her his next wife, Rakharo and Irri spend more time making eyes at each other than attending to their duties; why, I can hardly rely on anyone, save for my Missandei."

"And your husband."

What? Sansa tried to catch Olyvar's eye, to turn him from this hazardous course, but her husband gave a minute shake of his head before he continued. "When we arrived it was plain to see how well you worked together, the very picture of Jaehaerys and Alysanne come again. Why must you insist on shouldering the burden of ruling upon yourself alone?

"Because I must," Dany flared. "Jaehaerys and Alysanne ruled together, so all the stories say, yet time and again he ignored her council and did as he willed. Would you have me be Alysanne? Or shall I be Rhaenys, set aside for a fat fool, overshadowed by a famous husband, and killed in her only battle upon dragonback? Gods forbid I should be Rhaenyra; Daemon the Rogue Prince made her weaker from the moment they wed, so widely was he hated, and when he betrayed her it broke her heart."

Olyvar looked as stunned as Sansa felt. Well, at least Daenerys must have read some of the Westerosi books they'd given her.

"A king may share his rule, but a queen? Never. I am no child, no fool, no weakling." Almost unconsciously Daenerys pressed a hand to her belly. "I rule this city, not Aegor. It is I who crossed the Dothraki Sea, I who survived the maegi's spells, I who brought dragons back into the world. Has Aegor claimed a dragon?"

No, and neither have you. The words were on the tip of her tongue; Sansa bit them back as Olyvar opened his mouth to speak.

"Yet it seems someone has claimed Rhaegal."

Everyone but her husband froze, as if some witch had changed them to stone. Sansa could feel her heart pounding in her chest; Daenerys was corpse white, her lips trembling; Aegor looked almost guilty.

"That is none of your concern," the queen finally rasped. She reached for her wine, her hand so stiff she nearly knocked the goblet over.

"My apologies, aunt, but a stolen dragon is a danger to us all." Olyvar reached out to the queen, resting his hand atop hers in the same cautious manner he used when approaching Viserion. When the queen did not pull away, he continued. "I am not here to blame you for the theft. What little I have heard of Euron Crow's Eye is enough to turn a man's blood to ice, and yet Your Grace survived his treachery."

"Treachery, aye." Aegor's eyes were cold as he rose from his seat to stand behind the queen. "Greyjoy smashed a fleet blockading the city, then came to bend the knee. The dragonhorn was a token of his fealty, he said, along with a thousand other lies, and a few truths to win the queen's trust."

"Do we know aught else of Greyjoy?" Sansa asked, once the queen finished draining her goblet, the wine staining her lips red. "Why steal a dragon, if only to pillage like a common reaver?"

"Moqorro watches for him, in the flames. Greyjoy gathers more ships under his banner, he sails, he reaves. He fucks." There was an odd bitterness to the queen's voice. "He uses Rhaegal only rarely, as if testing his control. When Moqorro gazes into the future, he sees naught but rocky isles, and once a tower with a burning beacon."

"Never Meereen?"

"Never," the queen told Olyvar. "Moqorro believes a dragonhorn cannot bind more than a single dragon at a time; he would not risk his one dragon against the other two."

"Thank the Seven for small mercies," muttered Aegor. "He meant to carry Daenerys away with him, whether for lust of her or lust for her power over Drogon I cannot say."

"Either shows him for an utter fool." The reaver's sheer arrogance almost took Sansa's breath away. "Cage the mother with her dragon? Should queen or dragon wrest control from him for a single moment, they would set the ship aflame."

Daenerys stared at Sansa a moment, then chuckled. "Thank you, my lady, though I might have cut his throat first, to be sure." She drew away from Olyvar, her face composed once more. "Let us hope that hiding in a cargo hold slows Rhaegal's growth; I think I recall reading that they grow faster after reaching their fourth year."

Sansa blinked as sums danced before her eyes. She could not have heard right. The queen was eighteen. As she hatched the dragons after losing her babe, that meant the dragons must be two.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," said Olyvar. His face was very still as he hid both hands beneath the table, where the queen would not see him clenching his fists. "I believe I misheard; did you not hatch the dragons when you were sixteen?"

"What?" Daenerys laughed, amused by her nephew's confusion. "No, of course not. I was fourteen."

A muscle twitched in Olyvar's jaw as he began putting the pieces together, and Sansa's heart pounded, rabbit quick. She must get him out of the room before he finished, or even the Seven might not be able to save them. A startled gasp loud enough to draw attention, both arms wrapped about her belly, a sheepish glance at her lap, and they were dismissed, with the queen's deepest sympathies for the sudden onset of her moonblood.

When they arrived at their chamber they found Robett Glover and Symon Wyl guarding the door. Both looked askance at the way Sansa clutched herself, Olyvar shushing her and loudly asking if she wanted willow bark tea to help with the pain of her moonblood. Only when the door was shut behind them did they set aside their masks.

"Fourteen." Olyvar said, his voice sharp, his face murderous. "And her nameday is in fifth moon, and the dragons were hatched in first. Which means Viserys wed her to Khal Ogo when she was thirteen, and he did not hesitate to rape a child into her. Gods—"

"His name wasn't Ogo." What was the name she'd overheard Irri whisper once? She frowned, trying to remember. "Drogo."

Olyvar stared at her, utterly aghast. "Drogo," he choked. "As in Drogon? Gods be good, the vile—" He began pacing again, in the exact same spot where he'd paced before dinner. "Gods be good... how could Viserys do such a thing? And to his own sister?!"

He continued to pace for some time, mumbling angrily to himself while Gilly prepared Sansa for bed behind a screen. Once she was curled up under the blankets Olyvar retreated behind the screen, still muttering oaths as Edric undressed him, tended to the clothes, and then brought his knight master a fresh sleeping shift. Angry as he was, her husband almost didn't seem to notice when she curled up against him closer than she usually dared, hoping he might take comfort from her presence.

Sansa woke abruptly just before dawn, roused by the unfamiliar feeling of a warm arm gently wrapped around her waist, the palm restly lightly against her side. She should extract herself from her husband's embrace, she knew that, but she couldn't quite remember why. Warmth pooled in her belly; her hip tingled despite the layers of cloth between her skin and that of her husband, who cradled her so softly, her back pressed to his chest.

Surely it couldn't hurt to turn and look at him, before she pulled away? Surely not. Quietly, carefully, she rolled over, just as the arm pulled away and Olyvar's eyes fluttered open. She could see neither purple nor amber in the pale first light. All she could see was him, and he looked at her with a longing that took her breath away.

Nothing in the world mattered so much as that look.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak, and her lips were on his before she realized what she was doing. Her nose bumped into his; Sansa tilted her head and kissed him again, and this time he began to kiss her back, one hand cupping the side of her face. His beard was soft and scratchy against her skin; the third kiss ended when the hairs of his mustache went up her nose, making her pull back with a breathless laugh. Olyvar laughed too, a low, quiet rumble that made butterflies flutter in her stomach as he drew her back to him, kissing her slowly, carefully, as though kissing was a dance neither of them knew, but which they might learn together.

THUMP!

Buttons streaked under the bed, terrified by the thunderous noise of whatever object he'd knocked to the floor, and they sprang apart, wild-eyed and panting.

She stared at her husband, her heart pounding in her ears. Olyvar's chest heaved as if he'd run a race. A droplet of sweat trickled down his neck and over the top of his firm chest, then disappeared beneath his shift. Sansa placed a hand to her bosom; it was slick with sweat. Her every nerve tingled, demanding that she press herself against him again. Even the familiar sensation of a linen breastband was too much, the cloth chafing against her tender skin. She wanted to feel the caress of a cool breeze, she needed to bare herself to her husband, to continue the wonderful dance they'd only just begun. Her fingers twitched toward the hem of her shift, desperate to pull it off.

Olyvar's eyes widened, and he halted her with an upraised hand. "No," he rasped. Her heart plummeted as he scrambled away from her so fast he almost fell off the bed. "No. We cannot— I did not— I will not dishonor you."

"We are wed," Sansa answered. She turned her eyes on him, trying to fill them with all the yearning in her heart. "I am of age; you have the same rights as any husband. The Seven would not judge you for claiming them."

"Mayhaps," her husband replied, his voice quiet. "But I would judge myself. I am no thief, to steal that which is not mine to take."

At that her conscience roused itself from slumber. Guilt washed over Sansa, as cold as the waves of the Shivering Sea. Gods, what had she done? She was no milkmaid who might bestow her affections as she liked. She was a princess, who must put duty above all else. She could not forget her honor even once; at least Robb had the excuse that he thought their brothers dead when he fell into Jeyne Westerling's arms. One broken oath, and for that the Freys nearly killed him; as they had killed Lady Catelyn and poor Jeyne and thousands of northmen.

What sort of sister would she be, to abandon the north so that she might slake her lust? What sort of queen would she be, if she chose a crown solely to please herself? And who would pay the price for such selfishness?

"I don't know what to do," Sansa finally whispered, her voice small. "I don't know where my duty lies; my thoughts run in circles and twist themselves in knots. I... I thought it was my burden to bear alone, but I would share them with you, if I may."

"And I shall share mine," Olyvar answered. "Let us carry our burdens together."

He took her by the hand; they laced their fingers together. And all through the long conversation that followed, never once did they let go.

I cannot WAIT to hear y'all scream in the comments

Up next:

130: Jon V

131: Arya VI

132: Edythe II

133: Dany V

NOTES

1) Just in case you missed why Olyvar freaked out at the beginning of the chapter:

"With a sigh Sansa draped herself over Olyvar's shoulders, her chest pressing against his back as she embraced him lightly, then kissed the top of his head."

Olyvar: oh god, boobs, those are her boobs, she's touching me and I am so into it but so very guilty about it

I also cracked myself up with Sansa's nameday gift.

Sansa: *sings about Aemon and Naerys*

Olyvar: ah, she's reminding me to keep my hands to myself

Sansa: I meant literally the exact opposite goddammit you oblivious jackass!

2) While modern stereotypes claim that men are always horny and on the prowl for sex, while women are cold and have to be pushed into sex, medieval stereotypes were the exact opposite. "General opinion held that men were more rational, active creatures and closer to the spiritual realm, while women were carnal by nature and thus more materialistic."

There's an echo of this in canon, where the High Sparrow states that "The wickedness of widows is well-known, and all women are wantons at heart..."

Anyway, Sansa is 16, full of hormones, and unable to do anything about them, poor thing. No wonder she's frustrated. Also here's her in canon crushing on Loras at age 12:

"Wed to Ser Loras, oh . . . Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She remembered Ser Loras in his sparkling sapphire armor, tossing her a rose. Ser Loras in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful. The dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. The sweetness of his laugh, the warmth of his hand. She could only imagine what it would be like to pull up his tunic and caress the smooth skin underneath, to stand on her toes and kiss him, to run her fingers through those thick brown curls and drown in his deep brown eyes. A flush crept up her neck."

3) Sansa's confusion on the Dany timeline is, I think, realistic. She has no idea of the wider geography of Essos; in her head, it's quite reasonable that all of Dany's AGOT-ASOS arc could happen in about a year, rather than two years as in canon. It's not like Dany's retinue are drawing maps and timelines for her; she doesn't even know how to speak to most of them, and they use different calendars and measurements than Westeros anyway. Also, remember how back in Sansa III, Irri said Dothraki women come of age at 16? Yeah... so Sansa assumed that Dany turned 16, got married/pregnant, delivered a babe early, then rolled up to Slaver's Bay.

4) Sansa is a good, honorable kid. She is also a human being, and incredibly frustrated with her position. I felt it was understandable for her to be uncomfortable deliberately initiating sex and thereby ignoring her duty to Robb, but also desperate enough to look for loopholes such as "well, if Olyvar starts something, then it wouldn't technically be my fault... so I can drop hints but that's it."

5) Mutual secret pining is a delightful trope. However, neither Olyvar nor Sansa are stupid, and there's limits to how far denial can go, especially since they live together and tell each other almost everything. So now we get the very fun shift to mutual open pining where they both know exactly what's going on, but they both have a lot of hangups and fear stopping them from just doing the deed.

It's easy to be decisive and take bold action when you're a younger kid and oblivious to your own mortality/capacity for fuck ups. It is a lot harder to be decisive once you realize how many unforeseen repercussions your decisions can have.

Also, keep in mind, Olyvar and Sansa aren't in a high-pressure, now-or-never situation where they can react on righteous instinct (Sansa leaping off the Red Keep and accidentally doing a regicide, Sansa deciding to defy the Lannisters and avenge the Red Wedding by calling out Tywin during her trial, Olyvar jumping to champion Sansa against the Mountain). They are in a medium-pressure, longstanding situation where they have so much time and space to think about being proactive that they are twisting themselves into knots.

6) Hoyali means "sing" in the Dothraki language created for the show. Good puppy.

7) Sansa has a pretty good idea of what led to the Jeyne Westerling marriage because of her eavesdropping about the Red Keep back when she was a captive, it just never came up in her POV before.