Chapter Four
Sansa
I cannot believe I am back here, after waiting so long to leave, here I am back in the Red Keep. Sansa had to continuously remind herself that this time, she was not a prisoner, she was the King's sister—cousin—and the only Queen was the Mother of Dragon's who freed slaves. She isn't Cersei. And Jon isn't Joff.
Sansa had been dreading her return for weeks. She didn't like the Vale, and loathed having to pretend to love Petyr. She had thanked her father's god's all night when Jon was crowned King and ordered for all living Starks be returned to him, in time for her not to go through with the marriage Petyr had organised. I may have hated him, but he taught me much, how to read between the lines. Sansa was glad of that at least, she planned to use all Petyr had taught her to protect herself; particularly from him and his warped obsession with her and her mother.
Still, I will miss Robin, though he was sickly and annoying. Sansa wore her aunt Lysa's prettiest dress, the light blue brought out the blue in her eyes. My Tully eyes. Her Tully eyes would not save her now, Sansa thought, Jon will look at them and see my mother, who despised him. Despite what her actions may have said, Sansa had never hated Jon, not the way her mother had. I was foolish and naïve, believing that being a proper lady was all that mattered. So stupid. Because of her childish actions, and belief that she was better than her family because she knew how to sit properly and flutter her lashes, she was now at the mercy of her bastard brother she'd ignored, who'd turned out to be the last Targeryen, and her king. I always wanted to be a royal, she thought dryly.
"Lady Sansa, you have been summoned by King Jon," Rice, one of her cousin's kingsguard told her, without ever looking her in the eye.
He is one of Jon's aunt's men, Sansa quickly became wary, those Unsullied from Astapor who feel no pain and are loyal till death. There are six thousand of them here . . . Petyr was right, Jon and the Mother of Dragons have truly taken over. The last thought Sansa had before she entered her cousin's throne room was that Arya would've loved to see Jon's dragons.
"Rice presents Lady Sansa, prisoner of Littlefinger in the Vale, and King Jon Stark Targaryen's cousin," Sansa flinched at hearing Jon's new name. He will kill me for sure . . . Feed me to his dragon like he did Cersei.
"Welcome back, Princess Sansa," Tyrion surprised her by saying, a warm smile on his face.
Tyrion was nice to me once, hopefully he can convince the King to grant me a painless death, I hear they are like kin now.
"I am no Princess, my lord, just a Stark of Winterfell," she bowed her head. "Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace," she said to Jon.
He sat upon the Iron Throne, the epitome of regal, his infamous sword Longclaw lay across his knee and Ghost stood at his feet, almost as tall as Sansa herself. For some reason, she liked seeing the fearsome wolf at the throne. He looks nothing like Joffrey did . . . A feeling of warmth rushed through her, at seeing the North here in Cersei's home.
Beside him stood Varys, who watched her with a look of indifference. He will think I am a spy for Petyr. Sansa had no intention of remaining Petyr's 'ward', she couldn't wait until he returned back to the Vale and she could be rid of him forever. She smiled at The Spider anyways, she was in no position to look down her nose at people anymore. Anyhow, he was a good friend to have and a bad enemy, she could tell that much from who sat the Iron Throne now and who had been fed to the dragons.
Finally, Sansa met the stone hard eyes of Daenerys Targaryen. She is more scary than beautiful. Sansa didn't know why she was surprised. She has dragons, three of them, to whom she feeds her enemies, and she is Jon's aunt, she must hate me for how I treated him. . . I'm going to perish today.
"How was your voyage?" Jon asked.
"Fine, Your Grace," Sansa replied, confused.
"And your time in the Vale?"
Sansa hesitated. "Fine, as well Your Grace."
"Still a terrible liar," Tyrion chuckled, causing Sansa to stiffen.
It is only because I am nervous, and have not had time to practise it.
"I am only nervous, my lord," she said.
"And still hides behind all those courtesies."
"Tyrion," Jon said warningly.
"Your sister knows I only jape. We were man and wife, once."
"Don't remind me," Jon said. "And Princess Sansa is my cousin."
"An easy mistake to make, I'm sure Your Grace would agree."
"Well I do not, Lord Tyrion. It has been nearly a year since Jon was announced as a Targaryen," Daenerys' voice froze Sansa's insides. "Lady Sansa, it has come to my knowledge that you were quite the the little madam in your childhood."
"I'm afraid I don't understand, Lady Daen—"
"You will call me Your Grace."
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," will Jon not come to my defence? Of course not, when did I ever go to his?
"Since you don't understand, Lady Sansa, I will explain; is it true that you treated the King disgracefully while he resided with your family at Winterfell?"
"Daenerys—" Tyrion started.
"Let her answer the Queen's question, lord," Jon snapped.
"I—er, I—Your Grace I—" Sansa stammered.
"No words?" Daenerys taunted. "Not even an apology for the King you looked down your powdered little nose at for being a bastard? Something he had no control of? Explain to me, Lady Sansa, how it was Jon's fault that at the time you believed your father had slept with someone other than Catelyn Tully?"
Daenerys' words cut through the maid like ice, she shivered and felt her stomach clench and her fingers tremble. Oh gods, I have become like Robin. Sansa had no explanation; she had merely ignored him because back then she was silly and stupid. The new Queen's words made her feel like the worst person alive, she couldn't help but wonder why her mother had despised Jon all these years since it was Ned's fault the boy had lived. No, I mustn't begin doubting my lady mother. . . Sansa wanted to draw herself high, and tell Daenerys that she was no Queen but only a savage's widow, yet as she stared into the violet eyes of her, she couldn't help but be reminded of Cersei. They both have blonde hair, they're both Queen's, but this one has three dragons and the love of the kingdom.
"It was not the King's fault," Sansa stuttered.
"No, you're right. It was your father's fault. Ned Stark," Danerys spat.
Sansa flinched again. Your father was the Mad King, she wanted scream, he burnt my uncle and grandfather alive! But she couldn't. "But Your Grace, the king was not my father's bastard after all. He is son of Prince Rhaegar."
"Thank the gods," Daenerys laughed. "You are dreadfully boring, Lady Sansa. You stand here and simper, do not even say a word in either of your parent's defence. No wonder you liked the other one better, Jon."
"Enough, now, Dany," Jon said lowly.
I always knew he preferred Arya, she didn't treat him like the dirt underneath her shoe. So why does it still hurt to hear it?
"I apologise for treating you the way I did," Sansa found the courage to say. "I was young and childish and naïve, with no understanding of how you might have felt. That does not excuse my actions, I know but—"
"But?" Daenerys interrupted.
"Daenerys," Jon growled.
"But I've learnt now, and—" she sucked in a breath. "While you were at the Wall I missed you unbelievably, Your Grace. I am no longer your sister, and I don't deserve to be, but, we are the last Starks, and we should stick together."
"I cannot believe this, he is a Tar—"
"Daenerys, stop. You've had your fun, remember that she is a child and the current Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North."
Am I?
"Lady Sansa, you are not on trial here, you need not cower at my feet, I am not Joffrey. I called you here to introduce you to my small council, and my aunt: Daenerys Stormborn, Lady of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Queen of Slaver's Bay," the small council chuckled collectively, and Sansa realised this must have been how Arya felt when she excluded her from her friend's circles back at Winterfell.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"You may call me Jon, we are cousins, are we not?"
Sansa allowed herself a tentative smile. "Thank you."
"Rice and Storm will escort you to your chambers, where your two handmaidens wait. You may remain at King's Landing or you can return to the North, though the castle is only half built. Please feel free to come and go as you please."
"Thank you, Your—Jon."
"And Sansa—" Tyrion called after her. "Margaery Tyrell remains here, I know you two were rather close while she was betrothed to Joffrey. I'm sure she wouldn't mind taking you to Highgarden with her for a few weeks, as she promised all those moths ago."
Sansa curtsied once more and left, thinking that Margaery Tyrell might be just what she needed. Though, I'm not sure want to see anyone who had anything to do with Joffrey. What she really wanted was to erase all those years that she'd excluded Arya, ignored the existence of Jon, and fawned over Joffrey. Being alone had taught Sansa that all that mattered was the game and your family, even if at one point they were baseborn and ugly.
How did Lord Tyrion know about Margaery's promise to me? He must have spies, too.
Sansa really did not want to play the game of politics that infested King's Landing, she wanted to be a child, she wanted to go back to Winterfell, and most of all, she wanted her family back. Even Jon . . .
III
Jon
Sansa truly is the copy of her mother, beautiful and polite. Jon himself had been the one to allow Daenerys permission to speak to Sansa the way she had, against Varys and Tyrion's advice; he had wanted to hear Sansa explain, squirm under the wrath of Daenerys, but seeing her flushed face, the obvious fear in those blue eyes of hers, the way she had eyed Ghost, he had remembered that she was still a child, still a maid, still his family. He couldn't deny that a surge of smugness and satisfaction had raced through him hearing Sansa finally admit that it was not his fault he'd been born a bastard, but afterwards, when he'd heard her say that she missed him, Jon had only wanted to pull her into his arms and hug her the way he had Myrcella and Tommen.
"I don't like or trust her," Daenerys was saying.
"Daenerys, stop this petty jealousy and think," Tyrion was insisting. "If you turn Sansa against Jon, she could revolt."
Jon snorted. "Sansa? Once I find a way to get rid of Baelish, she'll have no semblance of power except what I grant her."
"I can't help but agree with His Grace," Varys said. "From what I can tell, she detests Lord Baelish and only wishes to live in peace after what happened with Joffrey."
"How can you possibly know?" Daenerys demanded.
"My birds sing songs from all over, my Queen," the man replied simply.
I should really acquire some birds of my own.
"Daenerys, you've said what needed to be said, she has apologised and now all we can do is watch her and treat her courteously. She is family, and I won't abuse her. Nor will you," Jon's voice was firm.
"I hope you aren't expecting me to befriend her," Daenerys said.
"Of course not," Jon answered. "If you can't be nice, then ignore her. Her chambers are well away from yours and the dragons."
Daenerys made no reply, so Jon understood that she agreed. Good, that's one problem solved. He quickly went on to discuss his feast for the next day, and the urgent matter of getting more ships, so that Daenerys could arrange for a fleet to accompany her to Dragonstone. Tyrion suggested asking the Iron Born, whereas Varys said they must flatter Mace Tyrell into giving them eighty of his, and Shireen Baratheon fifty of hers. Jon decided to heed Varys' advice against Tyrion's, mostly because he wanted no contact with the Iron Born after the betrayal of Theon. At least I got to watch him burn too. He even pondered the idea of naming Mace Tyrell Master of Ships as a further flattery to the man. If I can persuade Sansa to marry his heir, and put him on the small council, he cannot deny me even all his ships. Mace Tyrell, it seemed, was an easy man to use. The meeting was on the verge of its end, when Varys spontaneously shared his new whispers which put Jon in a joyful mood that lasted days.
III
Varys
Yes, the birds have sung and it seems they sing the song of Prince Rickon Stark and his direwolf, who has been a terror to the people of the Neck. Presenting the good news to King Jon had provided Varys with a pleasure he'd never hoped to find again. I did not even realise that I truly cared for this king. Varys had been watching Jon's movements closely, closer than he should, when he had Petyr to watch and Bran Stark to find, but he did it nonetheless. And what he'd seen had impressed him; such a long time since a king has impressed me. Jon was not the brightest man, during his time with Daenerys and Tyrion he had become much more well read than he'd once been, but even that compared to his friend Samwell Tarly was still surprisingly little. It is him, the way he thinks, how he's lived, Varys concluded, that makes him such a good king. He was not perfect, Jon still had much to learn, such as not allowing personal matters to intervene with his rule, and realising that Daenerys Targaryen was not someone whose words he should always listen to. Varys was upset to admit it, but he'd come to find that Daenerys may have caused disaster sat on the Iron Throne. She was kind-hearted enough and inspired loyalty, but alas, she was a firm believer in her own justice, and still harboured hard feelings for all the Great Lords of Westeros, it seemed, for rebelling against her madman of a father. Jon was calmer, more inclined to thought than action, despite his obvious gift with a sword. He is fresh, and still stuck in the North and on the Wall, and needs a tighter grip on his little birdies, but he is no Robert, no Cersei and certainly no Aerys. I will make him great. The eunuch smiled widely as he ordered Baelish to have Rickon and his companions brought to King's Landing, hinting falsely that it might bring Jon to his side, for Bran will most likely be with him, and Jon loves his brother dearly.
III
Jon
Feeling thoroughly exhausted, Jon walked down his halls as Tyrion continued the rest of the trials in his name, despite the one thing he vowed he would never do was allow his Hand to rule while he slept and drank and fucked, the way Robert had, Tyrion had managed to assure Jon that having him conduct the trials of minor lords and knights who'd supported House Lannister was exactly what a Hand was for, that no man could rule twenty four seven, which is why the king has a small council. Eventually, Tyrion persuaded Jon to take the rest of the day to sleep, while he sentenced the Kettleblack's and the Oakhearts, and any other prisoner he could manage who was still lurking in their cells. We cannot afford to feed them any longer, and soon enough even Daenerys' Unsullied will grow tired of guarding them, Tyrion had said. It is only one day, tomorrow I will make up for it with my feast for the people. Jon had Initially planned to take Ghost for a walk, talk to a few of his City Guard—ah, yes I meed to scour them too, put a few more northmen there and get rid of the cravens—yet his feet took him to the side of the castle reserved for guests. I will just speak with Mace then, while he still resides here, yet he walked straight past the Great Lord's chambers and towards his daughter's instead. I only want to hear her version of how cruel Joffrey actually was, it will help me understand Sansa, the lie sounded weak to even Jon's ears, but it did not stop him from tapping against her door.
"Y-Your Grace," a handmaid stammered as she opened the door.
"Gladys," somehow, he remembered her name. "Is Lady Margaery available?"
"For you, of course," the Lady in question smiled as she appeared at the door.
A flower . . . I should have brought flowers.
"Lady Margaery," Jon said gruffly, wondering why, exactly, he had sought out this Southern maid of no consequence to him. "Might I speak with you a moment?"
"Surely," she answered. "Gladys, why don't you go and fetch me and the King some blackberry juice?"
The maid scuttled away, and Jon stood awkwardly by Margaery's bed, gripping his sword tightly, wishing he had at least gotten Ghost before coming here.
"Your Grace?"
"I want to know more about how Joffrey treated my cousin."
"Oh," for a moment, Margaery's cheery, sweet smile faltered. "He was a very strong willed young boy, Your Grace."
"And how was his treatment towards my cousin?"
"Not very pleasant, Your Grace, he was cruel and had his kingsguard beat Princess Sansa whenever your lord brother—cousin, sorry, won a battle against his grandfather."
Jon mulled over her words, he hadn't expected to learn anything on his pointless trip here, but he'd never know about that. He'd assumed that the Lannister bastard had simply ignored and humiliated his cousin, and chopped Ned Stark's head off, of course he had known that Joffrey had been physically cruel towards Sansa, but not so often or by seasoned knights. And craven enough to have grown men do his work for him. I will take Sansa with me, he decided, suddenly feeling affection for his eldest cousin he hadn't known he could muster and anger towards Joffrey he thought he'd long let go off.
"And you, my Lady?"
"Pardon, Your Grace?"
"How did he treat you?"
Her mouth opened, but no words emerged, Jon had caught her off guard twice, he mentally congratulated himself, considering it quite a feat to render a girl known for her politically savy mind and charm, speechless.
"He was . . . He was not cruel to me, as he was Sansa. In a perverse way, I fear he liked me, I made him feel like the man he wasn't. He didn't have time to be cruel to me, I suppose, since grandmother—" she paused suddenly. "Beg pardon, Your Grace, I have rambled."
"No, no," Jon already knew of Lady Olenna's and Littlefinger's joint murder of Joffrey. The fifteen year old Jon Snow eager to emulate his lord father had ached to punish the two for kinglsaying, but after thinking upon it with a pragmatic and realistic mind, he'd realise he should be thanking both of them of ridding his sister—cousin and the realm of such a horrid boy. Plus, I couldn't very well expect Lady Olenna to let her sweet granddaughter marry such a boy, not after seeing how he treated his last betrothed. "You have not," he further assured her.
"Good," her smile lit up her face once more, and Jon had to pry his eyes away from it. I took my vows, he almost thought, till he remembered the vows meant nothing now, as Jon Snow had took them, not Jon Stark Targaryen, the King, who if he hoped for someone decent to take the throne, would have to marry and father sons. But I cannot have her, I will have a woman of the North, not a cunning little rose who's already been married thrice.
"Princess Sansa has arrived here and my council has suggested she might like a familiar face," Jon said. "I understand you had promised to take her to Highgarden with you. A change in scenery might do her good, once she becomes bored here," or memory's of Joffrey begin to haunt her.
"Oh yes," the girl beamed. "She'll love it, Your Grace, though my father and brother planned to set sail on the morrow."
Oh, I remember, Mace had said he'd wanted to see his daughter-in-law on the verge of giving birth the other day . . . I didn't think he'd leave so suddenly after giving me the golden dragons for the flower knight . . .
"I see," Jon said. "Are you excited to return?"
"Most certainly, Your Grace, the castle is so empty and I barely ever see anyone," this smile is different . . . younger, somehow. "I cannot wait to see my cousins again."
Cousins, cousins, cousins . . . Ah, yes, the ones Cersei had imprisoned. I must have freed them immediately, they were so young.
"Seems as if I must see Highgarden for myself, one of these days."
"Oh you must, Your Grace," Margaery exclaimed happily. "My lord father would be so pleased to have you, as would my grandmother."
Yes, the Queen of Thorns, he almost said that, but then thought, and the woman who went to all lengths to protect her granddaughter.
"You must not tempt me, my lady," Jon chuckled. "I may just stow myself on your ship."
Margaery's laughs reminded Jon of the bells that used to ring at Winterfell. "Yes, I do miss Highgarden so, though. . . " her voice trailed off.
"Though?"
"Well," she hesitated, but Jon feared this was planned. And I was so enjoying speaking with the real Margaery. "I do not wish to face my mother. She will insist I see all the lords in Westeros in a bid to have me married before it is remembered that I have married thrice, already. And my grandmother will be unhappy that I allowed myself to be imprisoned."
"I hardly think that your fault, my lady," Jon said.
"No, but I should've known Cersei would be up to something. If you had not prevailed, Your Grace, I may well be dead or imprisoned for life."
"Well, I certainly couldn't have that, could I," I must take the power away from the Faith, they are far too much like Daenerys. "And you can always tell your mother that you still grieve."
"For who? Joffrey?" Margaery laughed. "Even if I did, that would not be acceptable. Grieving for a Lannister is treason, and we must always remain loyal to the winning side," she said sardonically.
Jon digested her words. Maybe I am still speaking with the real Margaery, surely the charming one would still be sprinkling 'Your Grace' into every sentence and fluttering those eyes of hers. "I would not consider it treason, though, if you did miss him, I may have to ask a few questions."
"Fear not, I am glad to be rid of him. Though Tommen was much more agreeable. A baby, yes, but he was sweet."
"Yes," Jon's voice hardened slightly. "He asks after you."
"Aw," she cooed. "He will soon forget me. He has his sister now, and I'm sure once the lords come flocking they'll bring their daughters with them."
"Yes, he and Myrcella are inseparable."
"They remind me of Loras and I."
And I of Arya, and Robb and Bran. . . At least I will have Rickon. I can raise him, as a thank you to his father for raising me.
"Your Grace?"
Jon was startled from his thoughts. "Yes, sorry."
"Do not apologise, I was only making sure I hadn't bored you to death, Your Grace."
"No, I just wondered whether you would consider remaining here for a while longer?"
"In King's Landing?"
"Yes. To keep Sansa company, and delay having to deal with your mother."
"My brothers always said avoiding a problem only made it worse, Your Grace."
"Yes, my father said something similar."
"Would my father have to stay?"
"No, Lord Tyrell can of course return home to see the birth of his grandchild," Jon suddenly realised Margaery might want to see the birth of her niece or nephew too, and quickly added, "You could invite all your cousins to court. Sansa might want the company of other girls until, the lords come flocking, did you say?"
Margaery giggled. "You are too kind, but instead of all my cousins, maybe just one and my grandmother, as well, Your Grace?"
The Queen of Thorns in my court. . . I would need to find more spies and birds, and carry my own flask of drink with me too, and consult with Tyrion and Varys, most likely. Jon knew he had let Margaery's laugh and smile enchant him, he tried to convince himself that Mace Tyrell had already come and gone, his old mother would be no problem. Daenerys might even like her, a strong woman, if her alias says anything about her. He knew he should say no, that he'd have to ask his small council first, but instead, he thought about how nice conversation with her had been, once she'd dropped the sickly sweet smiles and the 'Your Grace's' and instead said yes.
"Of course. Lady Olenna is most welcome."
"Oh thank you, Your Grace," she squealed. "I could hug you!"
"It is my pleasure," Jon replied, but took a step away from her.
I must remember who I am, where I'm from, and who I trust. A Stark of Winterfell, the North and Tyrion, Daenerys and sometimes Varys. Jon had come to instinctively shy away from women, he liked to tell himself it was because he still fancied himself a member of the Night's Watch, but deep down he knew it was Ygritte. Their love had been short, and now, rather blurred in his memory, but he couldn't deny that even thinking of her hair, or voice as she declared that he knew nothing, made his heart pain and head hurt. He had told himself, that he'd marry a strong, honourable woman from the North, once he became Lord of Winterfell, someone worthy to replace Ygritte in his life. But he'd never found that girl, not in the North. They were all cold, bungled up in furs, with a streak of wildness that reminded him far too much of Ygritte in a very painful way. Not the way Margaery does, she is beautiful, and has that streak of wildness in her too, obviously strong, and she does not remind me of Ygritte the way Dacey Mormont did. Still, Jon thought, I shouldn't even entertain this thought, Margaery is thrice married already and all to my enemies, she is too . . . tainted for me. I will have to find someone else. When the time comes. And for Jon, the time didn't seem to be coming soon.