Sorry about Sansa's character everyone! Inadvertently, it seems I have taken my dislike for Lady Catelyn out on Sansa by displaying her as the season 1/2 version of herself by allowing Daenerys to treat her so horribly. Honestly, I didn't even realise I'd done it, so thank you Lee (guest) and elaine451 for pointing out. Obviously I can't just have her switch suddenly, so I'll slowly but surely make Sansa the character she is in AFFC/Season Five of GoT, because I truly do like Sansa, she's one of my favourite characters. Also thank you lambstoslaughter, your reviews are so real and show that you're quite invested in my little tale, they brightened my afternoow when I read them 3 3. Oh, and another note, ignore the numbers at the start of every chapter, those are just for me.

Chapter Twelve

Arya

12.06

The day had finally arrived: the day Princess Arya Stark arrived at King's Landing, with an unimpressed expression across her face, a hand firmly clasping Needle, two surly knights and an umcomfortable blue dress.

"Like what you see?" The grinning captain asked Arya.

"It's the same as it was before," she returned. "Smell's a bit better, I s'pose."

The man sniffed loudly. "Aye it does."

"Will you be staying?" Arya asked.

"For a few weeks, I'd hazard. After that, I'm off to Lannisport."

"I thought they'd let you go home."

"And where would that be, princess?"

Arya bristled at the title but said nothing. "Highgarden."

"There's no place for me at Highgarden, girl, I'm just some distant nephew."

"Surely they wouldn't turn you away from your home. Don't you miss it?"

"Every day," he admitted. "But I like the sea, too. Quite a lot, actually. I meet interesting people," he winked at her.

"I could make them let you stay at Highgarden," she said impulsively.

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I could write you a royal decree or something. Or better yet, have the king do it."

The man laughed heartily, clapping Arya on her back. "You are a rare one, you know that?"

She only huffed in reply.

"Enough of your sulking; you're a princess now, you should be a proper little lady."

"Get stuffed," she retorted.

"Stop your sulking and come on," he teased. "Your knight says you have to put the dress on now, since we arrive in hours."

"Which one?"

"The solemn one," he replied.

Had it been Ser Barristan, Arya would've attempted hiding out for a few more hours, for as skilled as the man was on the battlefield, he was not as nimble and found it difficult to locate Arya once she decided to hide. Jorah, however, managed to suss out her hiding spots far too quickly than the girl liked. Plus, if she kept him waiting he might not bother with her lessons later on, and immersing herself in some Dothraki was the only thing Arya had looked forward to all day.

"Fine, where is he?"

"Where he always is."

III

Sansa

Four days at Highgarden had treated Sansa Stark very well. Her hair shone, her cheeks were flushed with happiness and her perfect posture started becoming less and less forced. In the words of Willas Tyrell, the girl simply flourished. Though she enjoyed most of what the garden city offered, from her tea's and sewing with various ladies, to frequent strolls with Willas through the town, she couldn't deny there being a heavy sadness around every one she came across, especially her cousin. It frightened her sometimes, seeing how distraught Jon was, no matter how hard he'd tried to hide it since she and Daenerys arrived. Sansa often wondered what would happen if Margaery didn't wake. Jon could sink into an incurable sadness . . . He might even swear off women and father no heirs, and without heirs nobody would be left to rule and chaos would take over again. The whole notion of Westeros tumbling into destruction, while lords from all over tried to nab the Iron Throne, brought back unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts of Cersei, of Joffrey, of her marriage to Tyrion, and her subsequent time with Petyr. No matter how hard she tried, Sansa couldn't stop herself from shaking slightly whenever thinking upon the misery she'd experienced. Despite coming out her ordeal stronger and smarter, the auburn-haired girl doubted she would ever be able to dwell on her past without shivering. Never mind that, she shook her head, Margaery will recover, she and Jon will reunite and they will have hundreds of children, enough to fill the entire Red Keep. I will make it so.

"—He insists we cannot leave until Margaery recovers. I feel as sad as the next person about the fall, but he must put the kingdom above himself, must he not?" Daenerys ranted.

Sansa regarded the violet eyes of Daenerys curiously, and attempted to pinpoint when exactly, they had become confidants. Remembering the queen's initial treatment, Sansa had never imagined the two would become civil, let alone friends, and would occasionally feel anger at how Jon and Daenerys received her, due to mistakes she'd made at ten and two. It is not as if they are perfect, I was a child, she often vented. But time had quelled her resentment, and Daenerys' too it seemed. "He loves her."

"Yes, I know," Daenerys snapped. "I've been hearing it the past four days. From that wretched grandmother of hers, her insufferable twin, and unbearable father."

Sansa giggled. "My queen, you mustn't say those things. Any one could hear. And Ser Loras is Margaery's older brother, not her twin."

"Let them," Daenerys said dismissively. "Within weeks I'll be out of Highgarden, and in months out of Westeros altogether. I just wish she would wake up already," her voice began to crack, " I'm beginning to fear she won't. Ever."

"My que. . ." Sansa hesitated. "She will wake, Daenerys. She will, I know it."

"And if she doesn't? How will Jon manage? It took months for me to help him get over that wildling girl. He wouldn't survive this."

"You musn't underestimate him," Sansa advised, though she secretly shared the same worries. "Anyhow, with the additional Maester's, they've managed to pinpoint where in her head the damage was done, and have come up with many more theories on how to heal her."

"I suppose," Daenerys said, though Sansa sensed something sad on the woman's voice. "It has only been four days. And a mere three weeks since her fall."

"And the Maester's said a month should be the expected recovery time."

Daenerys sighed heavily, and ran her fingers through her hair. Sansa watched with none of the envy she might have felt five years ago, and reached a finger out to feel her own hair. Willas was right in telling me to leave it down, she thought, it is much less bother and feels softer already.

"Coin for your thoughts?"

"Oh—sorry."

"No need to apologise, just curious as to what you were daydreaming about."

"Nothing in particular," Sansa replied.

Daenerys opened her mouth to say something in return when a young, skinny girl, in dark pink attire approached the two. "Your Grace," she curtsied. "Princess Sansa."

"Carla," Sansa greeted the girl with a sweet smile—one she'd practiced numerous times in preparation for this visit.

"You remember my name?"

"Of course," Sansa said. "You were there two days ago, when Lord Willas and I took lunch together."

"I was," the girl beamed, clearly ecstatic at the thought of being known by one of the royals—which was of course Sansa's aim. "Pardon me, Your Grace."

"Pardoned," Daenerys said.

"His Grace requests you in the sickroom immediately."

"Is there something the matter?"

"I did not ask, Your Grace."

Daenerys nodded, yet made no move to follow the young girl; Sansa had noticed the queen's reluctance in visiting Margaery. "What do you think is the matter, Carla?" Sansa said suddenly. "You can tell us," she assured the girl. "We're friends."

"Well, my princess," the girl paused, eyes darting around for a second. "I heard Lady Olenna tell Ser Loras that the king wishes to bring scrolls from the Wall, to help heal Lady Margaery."

The queen glanced at Sansa, confused. "Scrolls from the Wall? Whatever for?"

"There was a Maester who served on the Wall when His Grace was there, a Maester who the king holds in high regards."

"Aemon," Sansa heard Daenerys murmur.

"Thank you, Carla," Sansa placed a hand on the maid's shoulder. "You've been wonderful."

The girl blushed brightly before scampering away, probably off to gush to her friends about how friendly she is with me. Sansa almost heard Petyr whispering in her ear: nice work. It disturbed her that she wanted to smirk and pat herself on the back.

"Do you wish to come?" Daenerys' voice echoed in her ears.

"Erm—no. Send my regards, I think I'll continue walking."

"Very well then," and with that, the queen stalked off slowly, apprehension spread across her features.

With the pleasantly warm sun above her, Sansa continued strolling through the gardens, grazing her fingertips along the odd flower, even entertaining the harmless flirtations sent her way by various boys she passed. None ever presumed to touch her, she suspected it was out of respect or fear of Jon. She certainly didn't mind, she was no longer interested in romance—not the way she had once been, at least. Sure, she sometimes allowed her thoughts to play with the idea of a knight in shining armour, but now she understood that she'd be one very lucky person if she was given the chance to marry for love and love alone. Jon certainly won't force me into a political match, nor will Bran or Rickon when either of them become Lord of Winterfell, but how will I know when someone truly loves me and doesn't just see a gateway into royalty? Often she would sit and draw up a list of possible candidates, but with the war killing so many and pushing others into impromptu weddings, there were hardly any left. I won't marry a Lannister, the Tully's are my family, the Stormlords are all rough and loud, and the Ironborn are certainly off limits. I could marry into one of our vassal Houses, but then I will be so far away from here. Despite everything, Sansa still loved the South. She held Winterfell close to her heart, and knew she'd have to visit sometime soon, to gain some closure, but deep down she knew the South was where she planned to live. Margaery would be good at this, she sighed, when she wakes I will ask her opinion on the matter.

A golden flower caught Sansa's eye and the girl immediately when to pluck it, twirling it in her fingers. It reminded her of Cersei. And Joffrey. I wonder when I will ever forget those two. It seemed I had when I was in the Vale, but maybe that as just because I was faced with a whole new set of adversaries and problems. Without the distraction, I can't seem to banish them from my mind. Although she no longer trembled in fear at the sight of anything distinctly blond, or even the sound of their names as she once had, something inside her still froze when she thought of Cersei and Joffrey. I shouldn't be afraid. Back then I was a prisoner, a girl, barely flowered. Now I'm a woman. A player. If Cersei were here I'd be in charge. I'd call the shots. If Joffrey were here I'd have Dry Sand beat him bloody then leave him in a room with Ghost for an hour. I shouldn't fear them, they're dead and gone and I'm still here. Sansa Stark.

"Princess Sansa?"

She looked up at her new acquaintance. "Lord Willas."

"You don't like the flower?" He looked pointedly at the crushed plant in her fist.

"The colour," she confirmed with a wry smile. "I hate yellow."

"Noted," Willas grinned and offered her his arm which she took gladly. "I suppose you wouldn't mind accompanying me on a quick walk, would you?"

"Depends if we're using your definition of quick, or mine."

He laughed. "Oh, your wit never fails to entertain me, my lady."

"Glad to know I'm entertaining, at least."

"And beautiful. But that's beside the point, come, let us walk."

"Crawl, you mean," Sansa quipped teasingly.

"It is bad grace to insult the crippled and handicapped, princess, surely you know that."

"Of course I do," she said. "I was married to a dwarf, remember?" For a split second, she wondered if she'd pushed herself to far, if her palms would moisten and her heart beat quicken.

But when Willas laughed loudly, she sighed in relief and grinned. "Oh how rude of me to forget. Only, you speak of him so . . . little."

The last word caused the two to collapse into laughter. They had quickly constructed an easy and playful banter, teasing each other about things Sansa once had nightmares of. I wonder if all Tyrell's are this lighthearted, or if it is simply Margaery and Willas. For some reason, her marriage to Tyrion became a joke with Willas, yet if she had been alone or in other company, simply thinking of her disastrous wedding night would've made drawn her into a sad silence.

"So how are things?"

"Fine. Warm," Sansa answered. "And you? I hear the Maesters have made some progress."

"Some," he agreed. "Not much. Not enough."

"They will, soon," she assured him. "Jon won't leave until they do," she jested.

"You're right. His Grace is very invested in our Margaery. Makes me wonder what they got up to in the Red Keep."

"Nothing improper," Sansa hastened to say. "They were good friends. She helped him get used to the South."

"Yes, our Margaery is ever ready to offer a helping hand."

"She's very kind. Every one back in the city will tell you the same."

"So I hear."

"She will get better," Sansa said again. "I promise."

A few moments passed where Willas gazed at Sansa, ignoring the increasing tension between the two. She ached to squirm under his scrutiny, but determinedly held her stillness. She'd noticed that Willas often went into moments of silence, his face filled with concentration. She'd previously put it down to his worry for his sister, but had recently come to reassess the reason. She was not stupid, she knew he found her attractive, more than he let on with his playful flattery, but she wasn't sure if that was why he lapsed into long gazes at her face.

Abruptly, he said, "I see you heeded my advice for your hair."

"Yes," she replied. "You were right, it is much more comfortable."

"And softer?"

"Immensely."

"Margaery often wore hers down, unless we were receiving guests."

"Really? It was always in some elaborate do back in King's Landing."

"Well, she was a guest to the king. Mother would have her guts for garters if she shamed the family with her appearance."

"Margaery could never do that."

"Neither could you, I'd say. When you put your hair up it makes you look older."

"I think that's the point. Well, the original point."

"It's helpful to look older sometimes, but here, you should be young and free. There's no-one to intimidate or scare, just us flower people."

"I guess so. Wearing it down makes me remember my mother; she would always brush my hair. Up to a hundred times at once, even."

"Truly? That is dedication."

"It looked like hers. I used to think she'd pretend I was her and she was her mother. Who died."

"I see."

"Sorry, I've waffled—"

"No. You never waffle. In fact, you're quite guarded about your childhood."

Sansa shrugged.

"Maybe it's a tale for another day?"

"Maybe. We barely know each other."

"Well, we'll just have to change that won't we? Come, enough of this crawling, did you say? I have birds to show you! Their feathers are the brightest things you'll ever see."

Animated and enthusiastic, Willas dragged a giggling Sansa through the gardens, turning to look at her every few minutes, just to make sure she was still smiling. Absently, Sansa wondered whether this was all still part of Lady Olenna's orders for Willas to keep her company, or if he truly found her entertaining. Never mind that, we're having fun and right now that's what matters. Young and free.

Like Margaery.

III

Jon

Jon gripped Margaery's soft, cold hands, hoping to squeeze some life into her. Too many stretched silences and unforthcoming Maesters had drawn Jon into the kind of thinking he'd sworn he'd never get within spitting distance of: he thought about Margaery dying. He thought about them putting her in a box and closing it forever. He thought about having to attend her funeral, not being able to cry, and having to walk away afterwards. Mostly, he thought about whether he really knew Margaery Tyrell. They had spent a month together, a month where he'd been rather busy and her still healing from all that had happened. Each day, each hour, each minute, he'd play everything over in his head, constantly quiz himself. What do I really know about her? What do I love about her? Do I love her? It haunted him. It was why he'd summoned Dany, something he rarely did. He needed reassurance from someone trusted. Not Olenna, who he knew would just tell him what they both wanted to hear.

"Where is she?" Jon muttered.

"The queen?" Loras said. "You sent for her ages ago."

"I know," said Jon.

"Probably just some trouble with that dragon of yours," Olenna said.

"Probably," where is she? She hasn't paid a visit since her arrival?

The door opened loudly, and Daenerys and Missandei entered. Loras and Olenna immediately rose to their feet, and Jon looked up. Daenerys offered him an apologetic smile, then turned her attention to the others, pointedly ignoring the still figure on the bed. "Lady Olenna, Ser Loras," she said and they both sat back down.

"How is she?" Daenerys ventured.

"The same," Loras answered bitterly.

"I heard they managed to pinpoint where exactly in her head the damage was?"

"Fat lot of help it did," Jon muttered.

"All the information does is tell us where not to touch. As if we'd trouble her head," Loras said.

"I see."

"Where have you been?" Jon asked.

"There was an issue with Rhaegal," she explained, while Olenna gave Loras a look which Jon was certain said: didn't I tell you?

"What was it? I know he hates it here."

"They just needed someone to tell him to stop breathing fire everywhere; apparently you were unavailable."

"How's the damage?"

"Nothing unfixable. I may have gotten myself scalded, but it doesn't hurt too much."

"Scalded? Let me see," Jon instructed.

Daenerys strode towards him, her hands held outwards, bright red. He carefully placed his hands around them, then instantly let go, inhaling sharply. "They're boiling!"

Placing them against her own cheeks, Dany frowned. "They feel fine to me."

"Blood of the dragon indeed," Jon said. "You should probably put that in some cold water or something."

"I'm fine," she insisted, causing Jon to sigh. "Honestly," he resumed his hold on Margaery's hand.

"What did you want me for?" She asked, staring at Jon's interlocked hands curiously

"It doesn't matter now. Just some issues with some lords."

"The usual," Olenna intoned.

"She really does look like a doll, just laying there, doesn't she?" Daenerys mused, looking at Margaery for the first time, with something wistful in her voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Loras demanded, as Daenerys reached out a finger to stroke the girl's face. "What do you think you're doing?" He continued heatedly.

"Nothing, I—" Her hand made contact with the smooth porcelain-like skin, and Margaery's snapped open.

She hissed in pain and reached to caress her burnt face. The movement caused her to groan in pain, and Jon froze. Olenna froze. Loras froze. Daenerys laughed.

III

Arya

I wish people would stop calling me 'Princess' already, she fumed internally. I'm a Stark, not royalty. Anger seemed to permanently bubble in Arya Stark, whether she wanted it to or not. In this instance, she did want it to. Her arrival at King's Landing had been far too loud and fussy for her tastes. People from all over had gathered at the docks, they cheered as she stepped foot on land, and followed her palanquin as it made its way to the Red Keep. She understood that they obviously loved Jon, but she hadn't done anything for these people, so why did they cheer for her homecoming as if they missed her? As if they'd known her? It's stupid. I'm not their princess.

Saying goodbye to the captain had been a little harder than she'd initially assumed it would be. He'd been cautious not to make a show of it, and even gave her one of his many jokes to carry, but she'd still hugged him fleetingly and waved twice as she got further and further away from the ship. I liked sailing. I liked that ship. At least Barristan and Jorah are still here. The two knights seemed uncomfortable at best with the attention they were receiving because of Arya. And of course the animosity between the two hadn't lightened by one ounce. They'd been informed by Tyrion—who'd come to receive her—that their services with Arya were no longer needed as Jon had left his kingsguard for her. Arya had then of course informed this Tyrion that she didn't need a protector. I've managed all these years with the clothes on my back and nothing else, I don't need some bloody knights to protect me now.

"Well this is fun," Tyrion commented jovially. "My, how I've missed the two of you."

"Be quiet, Imp," Jorah said coldly.

"It's Tyrion, actually, or 'my lord Hand'. Whatever you prefer."

"Very funny."

"Is there something I should know?" Arya asked.

"Ser Jorah's just jealous of anyone the queen favours. He knows that I am her favourite."

"Hardly," Barristan interjected. "There's Lady Missandei, Grey Worm, her bloodriders, King Jon—"

"Alright, alright, I get the picture," Tyrion said. "But after those lot, I'm next, whereas our banished knight here isn't even on the list."

"I was once," the man rasped. "I was the only one on it, once. Before any of you flocked to her cause," he sounded bitter, Arya watched him intently.

"Yes, once," Tyrion said.

"I hope this isn't going to be a regular occurrence," Arya complained. "Or else I'll be on the boat, quick as."

"And where would you go, princess? Back to Braavos?"

"Why not?"

"No reason," his eyes twinkled.

Arya groaned and fidgeted and picked at a loose thread on her horribly bright dress.