Before Sansa was born, before Robb was born, there was a different king.

There was a different royal family, never mind just the man in the hat. The Targaryens had ruled for hundreds of years, and they'd weathered civil wars and scandals by the bucketload. They were the ones who unified the Seven Kingdoms, and while there were plenty of people unhappy about that, it held, because the Targaryens held.

And then there was Aerys.

Aerys the Second, last Targaryen king of the United Kingdoms of Westeros and Dorne, was overthrown by force. A clandestine alliance of his most powerful vassals had used a series of poor choices made by his heir as an excuse to act, instead of doing their duty and moving as soon as the King's very genuine insanity became clear.

No, they'd waited until Prince Rhaegar made a cock up, and used the dishonour he'd done Aunt Lya as an excuse to remove first his father, then his entire family from power. It had all been for the sake of Lyanna's honour, as far as Robert Baratheon's PR team was concerned, with no mention of the suspicious circumstances of Sansa's grandfather's death, or the debilitating injuries Uncle Brandon took in attempting to flee the city with his father's remains - injuries that had claimed his life before he even reached Winterfell. No, that hadn't mattered to the Baratheons and the Lannisters, not when there was a grand, romantic cause that the press would eat up with a spoon. Not when acknowledging that the true root of the trouble had been the murders of the Duke of Norham and his heir would put Robert Baratheon anywhere but front and centre.

King Aerys died while Jaime Lannister was supposed to be attending him, and Prince Rhaegar fell down a flight of stairs on his way to negotiations with Robert Baratheon, or maybe on his way back from negotiations - that had never been very clear. That left Queen Rhaella and Princess Elia isolated, with four young children between them, and it hadn't taken a great deal for Tywin Lannister to menace them into abandoning the Red Keep. Everyone was too afraid of the massive armies the Lannisters and the Baratheons had idling all around the city to do anything, and even the armies that mustered in Dorne hadn't been enough to encourage anyone else to throw in behind the infant king. No, Robert Baratheon successfully staged a military coup, usurped the throne, and rewarded Tywin Lannister for his support by making fair Cersei his Queen.

Officially, of course, King Aerys was removed for the benefit of the people of Westeros, by the benevolent alliance of the Dukes of Durran and Casterly, supported in all but the military sense by the Dukes of Arryn and Norham. To their great sorrow, King Aerys and his sole adult heir died in the brief violence of the king's removal, and with a heavy heart, the Duke of Durran, as was, became King Robert I Baratheon.

No one spoke of Aerys' four legitimate child heirs. No one spoke of the Queen and Crown Princess who fled with those four children before the new king's brother could bring them into secure custody. Certainly no one spoke of the much-mourned Crown Prince's bastard, left with his ruined mother in the depths of the North.

That self-same bastard is making breakfast for Sansa, and explaining the Targaryen perspective on the whole thing. Dad was never one for bitterness, and Aunt Lya had always made it quite clear that she never asked anyone to go to war for her, but it's still a little shocking to hear King Robert so baldly called a monster.

"Mum and Elia kept in touch," Jon says, "and now, here we are."

"The Baratheon regime is illegitimate," Rhaenys says, her dark purple eyes bright behind her screamingly chic glasses - Pentos, Sansa has been told, is at the cutting edge of fashion - as she tears her toast into tiny pieces. "Had they offed Egg the same way they did our father, they'd be a little better positioned, since the throne always passed to the next male heir. Even then, there still would have been three legitimate heirs, including my uncle and aunt, ahead of that usurping bastard - no offence, Jonny."

Sansa isn't sure which is more upsetting - that Jon's brother and sister call him "Jonny," or that he's hidden all of this from their family. He and Robb have their problems, of course they do, and Sansa had been perfectly awful to him when they were kids, but he and Arya have always been like peas in a pod. It seems absurd that he didn't at least tell her, but Arya hasn't the sense the gods gave a cat when it comes to secret-keeping - she would have told Sansa straight away.

"I know this is a lot to take in, San," he says, plating up two fried eggs - sunny side up, with runny yolks for dunking her toast and sausages into - and two each sausages and smoked rashers. "But this isn't just about birthright. The Baratheons are running the exchequer into the ground, and everyone's feeling it except them and the Lannisters."

Jon's got a doctorate in economics - Sansa couldn't have given anything more specific even under torture - and he did his masters in Pentos. He knows to keep the figures and the jargon to an absolute minimum with her, because Sansa's talents have always lain much more in languages than in numbers, but she knows to trust him. He's never guided her wrong on this sort of thing before.

Then again, right up until last night, Sansa would have said that Jon never lied about anything at all. Now what is she supposed to think? Damn it!

"And you think, what? You sweep in and overthrow the Baratheons, and everything just magically gets better? You think the Lannisters are going to just stand there and let you dethrone Joffrey?"

"We're a little more realistic than that," Rhaenys says, rolling her eyes. She really does look like Princess Arianne, just with sharper edges - exile will do that to you, Sansa supposes. "But you don't need the specifics. Suffice to say, money is the main issue here, money and the murders of your father and Lord Arryn, and we have the means to correct quite a few of Robert Baratheon's mistakes."

"The first of those mistakes," Jon says, "was making Petyr Baelish master of the Royal Mint, and then promoting him to Chancellor of the Exchequer."

The mention of Petyr makes Sansa feel sick. Black blood on bland carpet, and cool, creeping hands, and cold breath on her ear-

"Well, he won't be a problem anymore!" she says, and even to her own ears her voice sounds shrill. "Not to anyone!"

Jon and Rhaenys share a confused look, and Sansa presses her hands over her face. She's laughing, and maybe crying, and definitely hysterical. Val's hands are a welcome weight on her shoulders, and the smell of her rich, woody perfume is familiar enough to ground Sansa just a little.

"What do you mean, hon?" she asks, squeezing Sansa's shoulders gently. "Did he tell you something before you got away from him?"

"Last I saw Petyr, he was bleeding from the head," Sansa says, "so you can thank me for fixing that mistake!"

"Jon has her."

Neddie and Trystane are already dismantling their command centre, mostly for something to do. Willas will have his dining room back by lunchtime, earlier than anticipated, because Jon Stark has been lying to them.

Pardon - Jon Targaryen -Stark, since he has apparently not disavowed his father's family quite as entirely as everyone previously believed. Arya Stark was so stunned that Alla put her to bed with what she's calling a migraine, of all things, and Willas is so angry he just might throttle Jon when next he sees him.

"Jon has her," Robb Stark confirms, with his younger brother sharing the screen. Bran looks remarkably like Sansa, with the same narrow features and overlarge eyes, but there's a serenity in his expression that comes entirely from his being a Seer. "I'm just as angry as you are, Willas, believe me. I won't tell you the kind of things Mum has been saying, and it's only gotten worse since Aunty Lya arrived."

"Why would he do this?" Renly asks, leaning over the back of Willas' chair. Damn it all, if the Targaryens are coming back, if they succeed, what does that mean for Renly? Can Dad protect him for Loras' sake? Renly was a child during the coup, so they can't bear him any sort of personal grudge, and handed Storm's End and the duchy to Stannis as soon as he legally could, this turn of the wheel, so it isn't as though he has a title to lose, but he's still a Baratheon. He's still vulnerable simply for sharing his brother's last name. "It makes no sense - have they promised him authority? Legitimacy?"

Willas couldn't bear to see Renly harmed, both for his own sake and, more importantly, because Loras would be completely destroyed.

"We're surprised by this too," Bran reminds them, sounding almost cheerful. Seers really are a nightmare in times of crisis - none of them are any use, since their visions always come at random and without context, but they always seem to have seen something that assures them that it'll all work out in the end. It's infuriating.

"That's not what we should be focusing on," Willas says, flashing Renly a small, grateful smile. If things go well, then the Starks will be his in-laws, and it would be easier to not have them hate him from the off. Renly's always had charm enough to take himself out of any consequences for asking the uncomfortable questions, though. "The why of it all, that can be explained later - for now, we need to be sure that Jon will put Sansa on the next northbound train so she can be home for your father's funeral."

"Wouldn't advise that," Tyene calls from the door. "A little recon revealed that there are goons in crimson ties at all the train stations and at the airport. She's stuck here, unless they get a more convincing disguise lined up for her."

"Then he can drive her home," Renly says. "It's a long hunt, but I think he damn well owes everyone a favour after spending the past who knows how long working with fucking Varys."

"I'll drive her," Margaery says firmly, virgin Black Rhaenyra in hand and glasses on the bridge of her nose. It was a late one last night, trying to figure out how the fuck the Spiders' apparent loyalist sympathies had stayed so quiet, and Marg must be cross-eyed with tiredness if she's not wearing contacts. That's more worrying than the half bottle of tobasco sauce she put into her drink. "Get her into a car, and I'll drive her. She'll feel safe with me, which I can't imagine she would with the littlest prince."

"Road blocks," Bran says. "Not yet, but by the time you got to Harroway, the whole place would be shut down. Sorry, everyone. We've got to sort out King's Landing before we can bring Sansa home."

"So helpful, Branny," Robb says, rubbing his hands up and down his face just the way Sansa does. "How do you propose we do that?"

"Our brother is due into King's Landing the day after tomorrow," Rhaenys says, "and I'd like you to be here to meet him."

"I have to be in Winterfell the day after tomorrow," Sansa says. "So does Jon. For Dad's funeral. We need to go home."

Although Sansa does have to wonder if Jon even considers Winterfell home anymore. Does he consider the North home? Dragonstone is probably his true home now, even though he's never even been there. Sansa has, tons of times, since Joff's investiture - she even chose the drapery for the private residence, because it's going to be their residence, when they marry.

If they marry. They won't marry. Sansa's probably going to prison for murdering Petyr, and the Queen can't be a jailbird. And that's if this planned coup - recoup? - of the Targaryens' doesn't work out.

It will. Something is niggling in Sansa's head, under the panic and the exhaustion and the sudden, almost overwhelming certainty that this is all stupid, that the coup will work. It's the same something that said Joff isn't really King Robert's son, or that said Mum had never remarried before, and the same thing that has her rubbing her thumb over the round rose-pink birthmark on the inside of her wrist, over and over, and the same thing that has her wondering why it is that the coiling red dragon that's wrapped around Val's upper left arm doesn't look at all like a tattoo, when there's nothing else it could be.

The coup, the reclamation, it will work. Sansa will celebrate anything that takes power away from Joffrey, because she of all people knows what a terrible thing it is to be under his control, but if Jon and his family think they can stop her from going to Dad's funeral, they have another thing coming.

"I want to speak to Mum," she says. "And if not Mum, then I want to speak to Robb, or Arya. Arya was in King's Landing this week, and I want to see her. I know you've seen her, Jon, the two of you can't go three days-"

"You're not seeing anyone, Sansa," Rhaenys says. Jon is standing behind his sister, arms folded and head down, and Sansa feels completely betrayed. "This isn't a social engagement. You can't just put on a pretty dress and swan your way away from this."

"I haven't just put on a pretty dress in a long time," Sansa says, feeling every single one of the cigarette burns on her thighs. "And your suddenly emergent plans don't change the fact that my father was murdered this week, and that he will be interred in our ancestral crypt at Winterfell the day after tomorrow. You told me that you want to use his murder as part of your campaign, and now you're saying I can't even go to his funeral? Ridiculous."

She's feeling very brave. She isn't sure why.

"We can't allow that," Rhaenys says, "until we have confirmation of your family's backing for the steps that we must take."

Petyr still has Sansa's things. Her phone, the watch Uncle Edmure gave her for her twenty-first with the sapphires at the cardinal points, her charm bracelet and her bangles, and all of her rings. Especially her engagement ring. He can take that one with him to the grave.

Well, Petyr is probably dead. But her things are still wherever Petyr put them, or else she would simply call Mum and be done with it. Jon was on the phone with Robb just last night when Sansa arrived, so it isn't as though he can't put her in touch with them. He just won't.

Arya has done plenty of dubiously legal sleuthing since she came south for college, thanks in no small part to being friends with Neddie and Trys. Alla's helped, of course, which is how they ended up going out in the first place, but this is more than dubious.

This is going into known hostile territory, armed with a ruddy great stick, with the intention of hitting anyone who tries to stop her. At least this time she's got more robust defence than just Alla, in the form of Rodrik and Asha Greyjoy.

Rodrik - Rodge, pardon her, he's cool now - is in love with Willas Tyrell, but he isn't at all pathetic about it, which Arya likes very much. He's quite direct and straightforward, if only because he's probably horribly depressed by all the terrible pasts he has, but Arya very much appreciates that, because straightforward tends to go hand in hand with good sense.

Arya has a Seer for one brother, a baby for a second, and a Robb for the third. She's too much like Mum for the boys not to drive her up the wall, and so she values good sense above all else. Alla, for all the silk flowers she likes to braid into her hair and her taste for soft little ballet pumps instead of sturdy boots, is overflowing with good sense. Arya wouldn't be half as mad for her as she is otherwise.

The building Sansa escaped last night is unremarkable for this part of town, just far enough off Satin Street to be away from gentlemen's clubs and into brothel territory. There's a strip club with a tacky neon sign directly across the road, and two separate sexual health clinics within spitting distance. Arya hopes very much that she won't have to escort Sansa to any such clinic - Joffrey's refusal to inflict sexual violence on San has been his one and only positive trait, and the very last thing Arya wants is for her sister to have experienced that final nightmare.

"She came down the stairs," Rodge says. "I saw the automatic lights come on as she moved."

"Did you see how many floors?" Asha asks, and there's a big knife hidden in her waistband, under her very swish leather jacket. Arya decides not to comment on it.

"Six landings," he says. "And then the ugly little man met her in the lobby, I assume."

Sansa's had dealings with Shadric the Mad Mouse before, although she definitely doesn't remember it just yet. If she was Awake, she would have charged right out of Jon's shiny apartment and come back here to make sure Littlefinger was dead.

"So here's the plan," Asha says, succesfully picking the lock on the outer door. "We break in. If Baelish is alive, we bag him up. Either way, we find your sister's stuff, smash the place, and go."

"By bag him up, she means bring him with us," Rodge clarifies, because Arya's concern must have been clear on her face. With the Greyjoys, nothing would surprise her.

The inside of the building is clean and neat, but not extravagant. The lino in the lobby is pockmarked by a thousand stiletto heels, and the varnish on the bannister is peeling a little, but the floor is swept clean and there's no funny smells or stains on the walls.

"If he's alive," Arya says, starting up the stairs, "I call dibs."

"Sounds fair," Asha concedes. "But don't be afraid to leave him for one of us if he comes up swinging."

Arya's known Petyr Baelish all her life, and thinks he's more likely to play dead than to fight, but one never knows.

Rodge keeps Arya in the stairwell when Asha swaggers over to knock on doors, asking after her uncle, he's new here, small man with a goatee, you might have seen his lodger if not him, tall girl with badly dyed hair.

The second door yields results - two doors down, Asha's told, and she's invited to drop by whenever she's visiting her uncle next, too.

Two doors down, the door is open. Only a little, and they only notice because they're looking. But it's open, so they let themselves in.

No need to mention that they were going to let themselves in regardless.

It's bland, all shades of beige with no personal effects - the opposite of Sansa and Jeyne's flat, which is pretty, but something of an eyesore. Sansa's probably in some sort of depression over being deprived of colour, especially since she's in Jon and Val's place now, which is all sleek dark wood and pale white walls. There's a kitchen, empty of everything except yesterday's Telegraph and instant coffee, and a sitting room that doesn't even have a radio, never mind a telly.

There's a bathroom. There are purpleish splashes of hair dye on the unremarkable white tiles above the bath, and a toothbrush on the sink.

There's a bedroom. Boots with a heel in Sansa's size, clothes that are pretty much the opposite of Sansa's style in her size in the wardrobe, lingerie in the dresser, and a bloodstain on the pale carpet.

"No Littlefinger," Rodge says, leaning his elbow on Asha's shoulder. "Interesting."

Jon didn't think to share the pertinent little detail of Littlefinger's possible death at Sansa's hands when he rang Robb, apparently, but Val texted Arya asking that she confirm one way or the other. If the other, she offered the services of her brother-in-law and his friends to dispose of the body.

"Dangerous," Arya says, wondering how in the world Sansa had the strength to knock Petyr out with those skinny arms of hers. "Even more than usual, because now we have no idea where he is."

Tommen's the only one of the kids genuinely cut up about Robert on any meaningful level, so Renly doesn't question it when the poor little bugger just slips past him into the house.

Myrcella, who he suspects is putting on the tears and the mournful face specifically to annoy her mother, kisses him on the cheek.

"Thanks for this, Renly," she says. Even knowing, every time, that they aren't really his niece and nephew, he can never do anything but love them. Tommen's the sweetest boy in the world, and Myrcella's got most of the good of her shitshow parents and surprisingly little of the bad.

"Baratheon," Tyrion grumbles, nudging Myrcelle on ahead. "I had them, you know."

"They're safer with me," Renly says. "When the truth comes out, no one will look for them here."

Because the truth will out. It always does, eventually, and this time seems to be running at high speed. While everyone else has been busy looking for Sansa, Loras' uncles and aunts have been conducting discreet, politely menacing enquiries that are going to bring Cersei and her hellspawn to their knees, and maybe hamstring Tywin as a bonus. Cersei has never been the most discreet of women, and while Brigadier-General Sir Jaime Lannister doesn't really seem to have any friends who might share his secrets, his devotion to his sister has always been… too much. Everyone who knows him knows that, so it won't take much convincing to get the truth across.

And even if it does, well. The Hightowers are very convincing.

"Coming in?"

"I would, but I'm already in trouble for getting those two out," Tyrion says, rubbing a tired hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Renly. About Robert."

Renly has never been close to either of his brothers, not in any of their many lifetimes, and he never misses Robert when he's gone. What he does miss is the stability of Robert's rule - his being alive is the only thing that keeps Cersei's maggot off the throne. While Robert lived, they could work on pushing legislation through parliament. Nothing short of a royal veto could stop a majority vote, and Robert never gave enough of a shit to veto anything. Jon Arryn's conservatism had kept things slow when Renly was first old enough to enter parliament, but Ned Stark had always been shockingly democratic. Shockingly republican.

Renly hopes that Robb Stark shares his father's sentiments. No matter how tits up everything goes, Renly's seat isn't inherited so it's solid for another two years, until the next election, and his alliance will hold even with Tywin Lannister promoted to Prime Minister, but having a liberal voice in the fixed benches will help.

"You should run for parliament," is all he says, becase to accept symapthies for Robert would be the next thing to lying, and Renly has learned over all his lifetimes that lying always bites him in the arse. "For a seat on the open benches."

"And then my family really would kill me," Tyrion says, with that sardonic little smile of his. "It wouldn't be the first time, but I'd rather escape that particular fate this time."

"I'll keep the kids safe."

"Please do."

If only Tyrion weren't a Lannister. They could be friends if not for that.

Robb feels a little weak in the knees just seeing Myrcella's name pop up on his phone, and he nearly hangs up on her in his panic.

"Are you okay?"

"Is Sansa? Joffie's been looking for her since- Oh, Robb. I'm sorry."

"So am I, babe," he sighs, pinching his nose because he's coming over all light-headed with relief. "Do you need anything? Would you and Tommy be safer up here?"

"Your poor mother has more than enough to deal with without us two getting in the way," Cella says, and he can hear her smiling at him. " And we have Dad's funeral, too. Tomorrow morning."

"Fuck, babe-"

"I'm formally excusing you from attending," she says. "As I hope you'll do for me."

"Of course."

He can hear chatter in the background of her side of the call - Tommy, probably, although whoever he's talking to doesn't seem to have a Western accent.

" We're in Renly's," Cella says. " I can hear you worrying all the way from here, Robb Stark. We're safe. Tyrion brought us over. They're still thinking of us like little kids, but they will keep us safe."

Robb doesn't say that of course they still think of Cella and Tommy as kids, it's so rare that both they and their uncles live to adulthood that it would be strange to think any other way. He doesn't say that because he knows the same is true for his family - how many times did Lyanna die before most of them were even born?

"Did he hurt you?"

"You know he didn't," Cella says. "He wouldn't, babe - not this time around. Too many people watching - too many people suspicious of what he was doing to Sansa."

Robb regrets not just kidnapping Sansa away from Joffrey years ago. He'd tried, of course, but there was no way of keeping her from college, and no way of keeping her from Joffrey when she was at college. And then when they'd gotten engaged, and it had all been so public, well, the weight of tabloid media had held San firmly in place at Joffrey's side.

Robb still regrets it. It's his job to look after her, and he's only managed it in maybe half of their goes around. If only they had a way of waking her, but the only person who's consistently managed that is Tyrell, and his method has never worked for anyone else.

"Fuck the timing on this," he says. "Fuck every single thing about this."

"Renly said that Sansa's safe, though?"

"Safe as anyone can be surrounded by Targaryens," Robb admits. "Jon's, ah, gone native, I suppose. He has apparently been in close contact with his brother and sister since he went to college in Pentos."

"You're not serious."

"Deadly."

"You said surrounded," she says. "I assume that means more than just Jon and the baby?"

"The sister is leading the charge. From what little Jon told me, the brother is arriving the end of the week, presumably with the aunt and uncle."

"Princess Elia? The Queen Dowager?"

"No mention of either, but given the only Martells we've heard a peep from all week are Tyene and Trystane? I'd say it's possible they're already on the ground. You know how dangerous the Martells are when they work together."

"And Prince Doran ceded legislative authority to Arianne just last year. Shit."

"We'll figure it out, babe," he promises. "You'll be safe enough when you're Duchess of Norham, though, and I can give sanctuary to any of your family as need it."

"But not my mother."

"Cella-"

"I understand it," she rushes to assure him, "but it's difficult. How's your mum holding up? She's always so brave."

"Fit to kill," he says. "She woke up. Absolutely furious, of course, but it's hard to blame her for that."

"Babe. What are we going to do? If the Targaryens are on the warpath-"

"They can't kill anyone," he says, hating that that's the best assurance he can give her. "They'll trade on the murders of their father and grandfather, and probably the murders of my father and grandfather, and Uncle Brandon, and maybe Uncle Jon. That means it has to be a bloodless coup - they lose their legitimacy of grievance otherwise."

Robb wouldn't mind if Joffrey was trampled in the stampede, but he can't say that to Cella. No matter what sort of monster Joffrey is, he's still her brother.

"You'll like Nana, San," Jon says, shrugging into his coat. "She's a doll."

Sansa's got a grandmother still alive, but not the one she shares with Jon. Grandmother Stark died of heart failure before the coup, but Granny Min is alive and viciously kicking in Riverrun. She's the most caustic, sarcastic woman in the world with everyone except her grandchildren and Mum, and she's given Sansa dozens of escapes from Joff by inviting her to stay every single weekend, without fail. It's only a couple of hours each way on the train from Landing Central to Red River, and Granny Min loves any opportunity to break out her ridiculous bright yellow convertible, which Pop refused to travel in.

She's not so sure about Jon's Nana. Will Queen Dowager Rhaella call him Jonny, too?

Jon's going to collect Nana from the airport - she's travelling on a false passport, and will be transported to the house of an unknown friend immediately upon her arrival. Princess Elia is already in Dorne, safe in the bosom of her family, and apparently Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys are already in the country, too all in preparation for Prince Aegon's arrival the day of Dad's funeral. Sansa hasn't been told where any of the royal family are, specifically, but she can make a few educated guesses. She's not an idiot, and she's been so close to the Baratheons for so long that she knows well who's considered a holdout Targaryen loyalist to the degree where Joff, repeating his grandfather's rhetoric, wanted them killed for the preservation of the Baratheon dynasty going forward.

Princess Elia is probably at Blackmont, Sansa thinks, stepping into the shower to try and scrub away the stink of Petyr's presence. She's already showered twice today, but Val's made sure that neither Jon nor Rhaenys say a word about it. The Blackmonts provided her and her children with their escape route after the coup, and the Countess personally drove them out of the city - a good thing, given the car they were supposed to travel in was later found to be rigged with a bomb.

Sansa only knows that because she once overheard Joff's uncle and grandfather talking about it. Lord Tywin thought it a shame that characteristic Dornish suspicion and distrust had robbed them of a neater solution to the lingering Targaryen threat. Sir Jaime's always had a loose tongue, and it's never looser than after he's returned from a long deployment and had a happy reunion with sweet Cersei.

Strange, that. It really is strange, although Sansa's never thought about it until now, not really. Dad's- Dad was close to both Uncle Ben and Aunty Lya, but they were never weird about it, not the way the Lannisters are.

And always have been.

There it is again. That strange little voice that's been whispering since Dad's blood and brain landed hot on her face.

She scrubs a little harder. Val helped her strip the worst of the dye from her hair this morning, but the suds of her shampoo are still coming up dirty and mucky looking.

But if Princess Elia is with the Blackmonts, and Princess Rhaenys with Jon - probably using the Stark name as a shield, damn him - then where are the others? The Queen Dowager will be brought to Old Monford, because the Velaryons are close relations of the Targaryens and have always, always sat uneasy under Baratheon rule. It's a short run from the airport to the Driftmark Ferry, and High Tide is more fortress than city - even if the Targaryens fail, there's no way into High Tide short of flying, when the gates are closed. She'll be safe there, safer than anyone else in the country if it comes to war.

Sansa couldn't do Design with languages, in UCKL. So she did History with languages. Joff used to laugh at her for studying dead men. He used to make fun of her for not having a head for figures, because he was studying Finance and Economics.

Jon is a doctor of Economics, and he's never made Sansa feel stupid about it the way Joff always does. That's always reminded her of Dad and his patience, but she doesn't want to compare Jon to Dad at the moment. He's a Targaryen, now.

She's going to think about Targaryens. Thinking about Joff makes her feel dirty.

Prince Viserys? He's next in line to the throne behind Prince Aegon, in theory, since it's always passed to male heir, so he'll have to be kept safe as well. Somewhere in the Reach, Sansa imagines - not Highgarden, of course, that would be too obvious and not defensible enough, and not the High Tower because the Earl is quite mad, by all reports. There are still loyalist holdouts, so somewhere in the Reach. Princess Daenerys might be with him, but Sansa thinks it's more likely that she's hidden somewhere in the Crownlands, close to her mother and the city, but also close to the airport and the port at Duskendale if a quick escape is needed.

And Prince Aegon. Sansa had no idea who could be trusted with him. With the man who would be king.

Jon Connington. Arthur Dayne. Gerold Hightower, if not Leyton. Uncle Oswell.

Why in the world- Jon Connington had died a drunk in Pentos, everyone knew that, Arthur Dayne had retired into hermitude after the debacle of Prince Rhaegar's affair with Aunty Lya, which he helped facilitate, and Gerold Hightower was an old, old man, uncle to Lord Hightower, the Old Man.

But Uncle Oswell? Rattling around Harrenhall like one of its many ghosts? That might be the most ridiculous of all. He served as a member of the Kingsguard during King Aerys' reign, true, but there's no one more bitter against House Targaryen in the world, now that King Robert is dead. Why would Sansa even consider him for such a particular role in the bizarre production her life has become?

She nearly slips and falls when someone knocks on the bathroom door.

"Sansa? You've been in there half an hour, pet. I've fresh clothes here if you want them."

Val. Yes. Get out of the shower, and have lunch with Val, and try not to be sick at the idea of Jon being part of a conspiracy to stop Sansa from attending Dad's funeral.

Oh, gods.

Margaery comes rumbling down the backstairs right as Willas is seeing Trys and Neddie and the last of their equipment out the door. She's the least put together he's ever seen her, and he's struck - not for the first time - by how deep and sincere her friendship with Sansa is every single time.

Sansa's family generally doesn't like him very much, but his family loves her.

"Go away, savages," she says, kissing Trys on the cheek when he leans back to pull the door behind him. "Be safe, don't get in trouble, come back in the morning."

"Can't," Trys says. "I'm at the royal funeral as one of Papa's representatives in the morning."

"Bollocks," Willas says. "Dad rang me earlier and I ignored it - I probably have to go as well, don't I?"

"I've hung out your robes," Marg says. "We can steam them in the morning if need be. But go away, Trystane. Family business."

Trystane goes, and Margaery puts her phone down on the dining table.

"Az is creeping about the rafters," he says. "Do you need her?"

"I need you," Marg says, "and you need to hear this."

She presses play.

"I know you don't answer private numbers so I won't take it personally. Margie - I need to get home for Dad's funeral. Everything is gone insane. I know I'm always asking favours, but I promise that this is the last one. Can we meet? No one else will help me, but you always do. I'm sorry, Marg, but there's no one else I can trust. Oh! This is Sansa, just in case."

Willas sits down - carefully, so as not to hurt his leg.

"She called again straight after with the number," Marg says. "I'm meeting her this evening, during the removal. Is it okay if-"

"Yes," he says, without hesitation. "Yes, M, of course."

"Don't be weird at her," Marg warns him. "I know you. Don't be weird."

"She has more than enough to worry about without me being weird," he promises. "Do you- shit. Have you told Arya?"

"She's going to be at the funeral as well," Marg says, "and then she's going to be flying home for her father's funeral right after, on a private flight. A diplomatic flight."

Only the Crown, the Prince of Dorne, and the seven dukes can assign an internal flight diplomatic status. A flight with diplomatic status cannot, under any circumstances, be searched.

"She can stay here as long as she needs to," Willas says. "I- Marg, are we going to-"

"If you jinx us now," she says, "I really will throw you off my balcony."

"So," Val says. "You've had a horrible introduction to Rhaenys."

"You could say that," Sansa says, tucking her feet up under herself on the deep, soft couch in Val's dressing room. "She's… Direct."

"She's not usually like this," Val says. "The first time I met her, she'd asked Jon what my favourite food and favourite colour were, and she'd made beef and ale pie and was wearing white. She's a people pleaser, usually. A real sweetheart."

"She seems it."

Val laughs, tossing all her fantastic caramel-blonde curls back over her shoulder.

"Put it this way, San," Val says. "If she was as much an arsehole as she's seemed since you met her, I wouldn't let her into the house - but she's here. Jon wouldn't have let her near you if he didn't trust her."

Sansa's silence obviously speaks volume, because Val gives her a look.

"Believe me," she says, and Sansa always does. "I wasn't happy with him about it either. I could have killed him for not asking them to put it off until after the baby arrives."

Val's due in just over a month, as far as Sansa knows, and she can't help but wonder if maybe Robert's unexpected death-

At Cersei's hands-

- maybe pushed up their timeline.

"They're pushing this whole economic agenda because that will appeal to Parliament, but it's not about that, not for Rhaenys," Val says. "I think the pressure is getting to her more than to anyone else, but it's because she remembers their dad. You can understand that, can't you? Don't you want justice for Ned?"

"Please, please tell me you're not thinking of picking Sansa up in that."

It's poor Wynafryd Manderly's car again, looking like it rolled off a Silk Street stage - no one else would drive a turquoise car other than a Manderly.

Or Marg. Because everyone else knows better than to let her behind the wheel.

"Who would ever drive something like this on a stealth mission?" Marg points out, which is true. "I'd never do anything stupid that might risk Sansa, and I'm insulted that you think otherwise."

"Don't be like that."

"Don't you be like that! You don't know Sansa this time, Willas! As far as Sansa's concerned, you're a kindly stranger who's doing a generous favour for his little sister, who is her closest friend."

"Ah."

"Exactly."

Val is eight months pregnant, and so of course she can't take the physical risk of sneaking Sansa out of the house and to her and Marg's meeting point.

So she calls a friend.

"Miss Stark," Mya Stone says, leaning against a slightly dingy taxi of the sort Sansa would always avoid on a night out. "Fancy a lift?"

"Text me as soon as you get into Margaery's car," Val says, "and ignore everything Mya says."

"Why are you doing this, Val?" Sansa asks. "Getting me away, I mean. Rhaenys and Jon made it clear that they have- that there are plans. Ones I'm involved in."

"I know what those plans are," Val says. "And I think you've probably had enough of people making decisions for you - so get into Mya's car, and let us help you get to safety."

"If I'd realised how bad things were," Mya says, holding the door for her, "I'd have brained Baelish myself. Come on, Stark. Let's get you out of here."

" If your dad tries to act the prat," Marg says, "tie him down."

Aster grins, just the way Gar does when he's given permission to be a brat.

Will's gone to the removal - Ty went with him, because her father isn't officially in the city and there has to be some Martell on display. Prince Oberyn will be out and about for the funeral, of course, but tonight is more for the people than the lords, and there is no real ceremony. Aster's not alone, of course, because Arya and Alla will be upstairs for another half an hour or so and then Will will be home, but Marg still worries. She always worries.

Val gave Sansa a hat and glasses to wear as a disguise, and the kind of cool ripped jeans and combat jacket that she wears, which Sansa would never wear.

Which Joff would never allow Sansa to wear.

The procession from the Palace, high up on the High Hill, to the Great Sept is running away nicely. The city feels empty, echoing with the bells ringing out from Visenya's Hill.

Sansa is on Rhaenys' Hill. She's sitting on the steps of the UCKL Arts Building, where she and Marg first became friends, and she can't help but laugh when Wynafryd Manderly's absolutely terrible dark turquoise coupé with the teal seats. Fred is a good friend of Robb's, and he hadn't let her live down the ugliest car in the North - not until he bought a dark metallic grey SUV with white leather upholstry, and had to shut up.

Marg isn't even wearing concealer, and her hair is in a high ponytail. She looks stressed to the gills, and Sansa has never been happier to see anyone in the world.

"Hi," she says, and she's crying. "Oh, Marg-"

Marg grabs her so tight it hurts.

Margaery's an even worse driver than usual when she's anxious, but they get to a beautiful house on the million mile, on the seaward side of Rhaenys' Hill, without a fatal accident.

"It's my brother's place," she says, patting Sansa's knee. "Here, let me-"

She beeps a tiny remote, and the garage door rolls up. Good. Fred's car is so unbelievably ugly that there's no hiding it, except literally hiding it. The other car in the garage is the sort of elegant, classic sedan that Ed loves - a little bit vintage, like the way him and his friends wear their hair.

"I don't know if you've ever met Will," Marg says, "but I think you'll like him. He's right on board with keeping you safe until I can get you on that plane in the morning."

"If Joff finds out-"

"Will is on board with this, San," Margaery says firmly. "Now come on - my niece is here too, so don't mind if the place is littered with school books. She's got exams this year."