Making slight changes to the original path the story takes, but it leads to the same place...(HINT HINT BOOK READERS)
The entire kingdom was celebrating the union of King Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell with many nights of drinking, dancing, and romancing. Singers flocked to the city, each writing up new and better songs depicting the love between the handsome young king and the loveliest flower in the world.
Sansa could have vomited, the gushy songs were so overpowering. They were all the same song, again and again; the golden knight and the fairy queen, the good king turned from his tyrant family by a fragrant rose, the king of the world and his ethereal spirit love. They were all stuffed full of romantic images and perfect characters, but in no way revealing the truth underneath.
Sansa hated them because they made her question her favorite songs and tales; what of Florent and Jonquil? The Knight and the Maid? Had they truly even loved each other?
The maids ran excitedly about the palace with armfuls of cloth, flowers, and ribbons. Queen Regent Cersei stood at the center of the chaos, constructing the madness with an agile hand. She yelled at bakers, chefs, headmistresses, and head maids as they ran back and forth. The only thing that comforted Sansa was the fact that this was not her wedding.
Nor would it ever be her wedding again.
Sansa touched her flat belly through her whalebone corset, through the rich jeweled dress of gold and creams she wore. The seed pearls poked against her fingers, but she felt through them to her very core.
Fae had been right, or so she almost hoped. Sansa had missed her first course, and she was breathlessly waiting to see if it was simply delayed. She could only hope that Jaime's seed had taken root and she was carrying his child.
She closed her door to the frantically scurrying maids. Sansa knew that Margaery would need her, would need somebody to help her and comfort her fears, but it would have to wait. She reclined into a low scarlet chair and closed her eyes for a moment.
Would she be able to love a child of his?
She tried to envision a tiny golden-haired baby in her arms, with pink cheeks and green eyes. She imaged it with Jaime's smile, his straight nose. She imagined a perfect little replica of her husband and tried to love it.
"Sansa!"
Sansa opened her wide blue eyes, surprised. Margaery rushed into her room, slamming the door behind her. She wore her coronation gown, the loveliest pink and white confection that complimented her chestnut hair perfectly. Silver lace gloves wove delicately up her arms, and loose ribbons and needles stuck out everywhere. She looked positively frazzled. Her normally sweet eyes were wild with impatience and panic.
"Queen Margaery?" Sansa began, confused but trying to adjust to her friend's new title. It was a mantle that she sacrificed with pleasure; nothing was worth marrying Joffrey. "What are you-"
"They're driving me insane!" burst Margaery in frustration, throwing up her hands helplessly. "Cersei, Joffrey, Father, grandmother, the lot of them! I want to hide in here for a little while, with someone who doesn't give a horse's ass about my wedding!" Sansa's jaw dropped; it was possibly the first curse ever dropped from sweet Margaery's lips. The two girls stared at each other for a moment before bursting into nervous laughter.
"Come, sit down," urged Sansa, guiding Margaery to her small table. She had dropped all courtly mannerisms; now she just wanted to help her friend. "Deep breaths, calm yourself. They only want what's best for you."
Margaery laughed, a bitter tone to her young voice. When she looked at Sansa, her eyes were as old as her grandmother's. "Nobody has ever wanted what was best for us, Sansa."
"Never have truer words been spoken. Have some tea." Sansa poured a cup of tea for Margaery, since her maids had been called on to help with the wedding. She didn't mind, though; ears were everywhere, and she wanted her room very empty when Margaery came to complain about her husband's family.
"Have you heard the newest song?" asked Margaery in a voice that suggested her thoughts were along the same as Sansa's. When Sansa laughed and shook her head, Margaery scoffed. "It's about the sun and the moon, or something. You know, the sun is king, the moonlight shines over the wildflowers, same as all the others. Well they apparently touch and birth the firebird, which brings wealth to all the people."
"That sounds oddly similar to that other song, where the golden stag marries the Rose Queen, and all the fruits of the forest bloom. I'm sensing a trend, dear Margaery." Sansa hadn't laughed for a long time. Jaime had been gone for a week, and though she was loathe to see him again her world was a little darker without his ceaseless humor. But without Jaime, she was afraid to roam the palace. He wasn't there to protect her honor from catcalling serving boys, guards, and the ever present Joffrey.
"Yes, my wedding will apparently lead to the wealth of the country again. How very charming." Margaery rolled her pretty brown eyes in a very unqueenly fashion. "Reminding me, I have a present for you." She pulled a small box from a fold of her gown, very thin and plain. "It's from my grandmother."
Sansa took it and opened it. Inside was a lovely net for her hair, silver and studded with tiny black stones. Sansa smiled as she withdrew it; it would match the silver dress she was planning to wear to the wedding anyways.
"It's very beautiful. Thank you, my friend." She hugged Margaery warmly. Both girls flinched as someone distantly screamed Margaery's name. The rising queen withdrew and made a face.
"I guess they need me for something. What a surprise," she sighed, standing and straightening her gown. "Come and see me again, Sansa! I can't bear being all alone in the middle of this."
Sansa nodded and smiled, touching Margaery's cheek once before the young queen reluctantly left her room.
Alone again, Sansa sat down and turned the beautiful gift over in her hands. Margaery would be married at the break of dawn, against her will, and expected to bear children to her childish, tyrant husband. Her fate was much the same as Sansa's, except neither knew that Joffrey was Jaime's son, and Sansa married to Jaime...
Her eyelashes were wet. She dabbed at them carefully, not wanting to make the delicate skin around her eyes red. It was all just so horrible, so much darker than the songwriters could have imagined. She had never realized the perversion that twisted itself around the throne like a serpent, never realized how far she wanted to be from it all.
Would her baby be the same? Would it dip into the Lannister cup, or would it be as good and just as a Stark? Her hand touched her belly again, and she prayed for it to be empty.
Helping to dress Margaery hadn't been as fun, knowing what actually lay behind her blushing cheeks, her excited brown eyes. She appeared for all the world an enchanted lover; but in reality Sansa knew she was a frightened girl.
Sansa left the room with the rest of the girls to find her seat; the sun was rising soon, and everyone was eagerly piling into the greatest courtyard. Cersei had generously chosen the grandest setting to offer; it was the courtyard beside the forest, fragrant with wildflowers. Honeysuckle and blackberry bushes climbed the stone walls beyond which commoners piled to cheer.
The courtyard was a lovely sight to behold. Roses curled around every surface, white and gold and pink. Sansa had never smelled anything so good in her life. The smell of Jaime's hair as he pressed kisses to her neck...
Sansa shook her head slightly and greeted the couple beside her, some of Joffrey's extended family, a Lannister aunt or whatnot. She felt very fine in her silver and white dress. It was spotted with seed pearls and delicate ceramic roses everywhere, her sleeves long and gauzy. The silver and black hairnet set stunningly against her mahogany hair.
And then, as everyone gathered to the sides, suddenly the queen appeared in the tallest arch, surrounded by her Tyrell roses. Sansa sighed; though she'd already seen Margaery's dress, the effect was stunning with the crown and the roses all around her. She looked as frail as a fairy surrounded by such magnificence; her dress was long and folded with many sheets of silk, lace sleeves winding all the way to her wrists. Diamonds studded the collar of the dress, as well as all along the hem and sleeves; she glittered beautifully. Golden roses were tangled in her hair, and a woven belt of them was slung at her hips. They were around her wrists, at her neck, the folds of her dress; Margaery was a vision of loveliness.
The commoners who could see over the walls, either by climbing or standing on a friend, cheered mightily at the sight of her. Margaery's shy smile could barely be seen through the spangled veil that hung from her magnificent headdress. She stepped forward, all grace and queenly beauty.
Sansa felt the acutest moment of pity. She knew that beneath the garments of a queen, Margaery was just as reluctant and alone as she herself had ever been. It was as though the rose chains at her hips and wrists dragged her forward, living symbols of her own family's ambition.
A dozen musicians blew into golden pipes, and it was the sound of the wind through the trees that Margaery walked to. Their melody rose with haunting perfection, and children scattered petals around her feet as she walked. Sansa teared a little bit; it was exactly as she'd always dreamed a wedding should be.
Margaery joined Joffrey at the very front of the courtyard, beneath a freestanding arch entwined with gold ribbons and white roses. Red and pink petals flew freely. The holy man, an ancient and powerful high priest, raised a wizened hand for silence.
They said their vows together, they drank from the chalice together, and never did Margaery's eyes leave her new husband's. When he threw his cape around her, he leaned in close to fasten it. A royal smile always graced his lips. They looked for all the world a couple united in love.
"I declare Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell to be forever united. Pledge yourselves with a kiss." The old man's voice rose high above the cheering of everybody, courtiers and commoners alike.
Joffrey threw back her veil, buried a hand in her lustrous brown hair, and kissed her deeply, tenderly. Sansa smiled at the sight of them, locked in a romantic embrace. She wished with all of her heart that Joffrey had changed, that he would be a good and true husband to Margaery.
And then the court was all rushing to them, to congratulate Margaery and welcome her into their families. Sansa walked with Margaery's cousin Alla, who was absolutely overflowing with tears. Jaime's handsome green eyes as he stared at her in bed, his laughter, his desire...
Sansa stuffed Jaime out of her head and hugged Margaery close. She couldn't think of what to say to the girl, the girl whose coronation was tonight and who stood bravely in the midst of lions. But it didn't need words; Margaery squeezed her and kissed her cheek. Sansa turned to Joffrey, whose eyes were already roaming her bare shoulders.
"Dearest Auntie," he addressed her, his smile much more of a leer. He held out his arms and she had to accept them. Pulling her close, he bit her on the neck. It reminded her so much of Jaime that she almost burst into tears of anger and disgust. "We'd better be much friendlier, now that all of this is over and my darling uncle is off to war."
His words disgusted her almost as much as the rest of him. She withdrew, fighting to keep her smile intact. "I'm sure my husband would be pleased if we got along, your highness. He is quite a jealous man, I'm sure he'd appreciate the extra protection his kind, handsome nephew would provide."
Joffrey couldn't exactly turn that around, so he simply shot her a glare as she curtsied and walked away.
"Come, Sansa, let's find our seats for the feast!" giggled Alla eagerly, taking Sansa's hand and rushing towards the Head Table. Sansa gasped a little; Margaery had placed her among her own cousins? She felt like weeping at her friend's goodness.
Margaery's grandmother stopped her as they walked, cooing over how lovely she looked and adjusting her black jeweled hairnet. Sansa curtsied to the old woman and thanked her, wishing she could have been married into her family. Alla pulled her onward, and the woman vanished into the crowd behind her.
But there was no place for her there. Confused, Sansa looked around, but suddenly she saw Tyrion the dwarf gesture to her. Her blood ran cold, but she smiled and moved towards him as fluidly as any fine woman of the court. He pulled out her chair for her.
"Thank you, my lord," she said quietly, looking to her left and right. Joffrey and Margaery would sit in the two empty seats in the center of the table; then on Joffrey's right first Queen Cersei, then Lord Tywin, then Sansa, and then the dwarf. She saw quickly that she was sitting in for Jaime. If Jaime was here, he'd pull out my chair and cut me the sweetest portions of food...
"My apologies, my lady," said the dwarf gruffly as he seated himself to her right. She waited for the rest, but he didn't look as though he had more to say. Sansa kept the same smooth smile plastered to her face.
"For what, my brother?" she pressed, a little confused. Tyrion smiled grimly at the way she addressed him, but shook his head.
"For everything, of course."
Sansa didn't push him for more. His large, mismatched eyes seemed to be more knowing than any she'd encountered at court. She just smiled and thanked him like a trained lapdog. Trying not to look to either side, not wanting to incite conversation with her Lannister neighbors, she watched the procession of Margaery and Joffrey to the head table.
Margaery had changed dresses, and as always she was breathtaking. Her tiara, silver and green, matched her lily-green silk gown perfectly; the outer folds were drawn back to reveal the palest cream laces. She still had roses and leaves tangled in her long, loose hair.
Her hand was on Joffrey's arm as hey ran through the rows of friends and family, 'allies and kin,' corrected Sansa bitterly. There was no reason to suspect that they were anything but madly in love; Margaery was all smiles and Joffrey would kiss her face suddenly and unexpectedly. Songwriters strummed lyres in all corners of the courtyard, busily soaking in the moments of romance for their songs.
When they reached the table, the feast began. Commoners still hung about the stone walls, watching in awe as wave after wave of rich, fantastic dishes were brought in. Great roast swan, sucking pigs, haunches of deer and stag, delicate rabbit platters, tossed turnip and wild dandelion salads, fragrant honey-glazed lamb...Sansa found she could stomach next to nothing.
Joffrey was all loveliness and adoration to his beautiful bride, but to his family he was caustic and curt. Sansa was stunned at the tone he used to address his mother, grandfather, and uncle; he was constantly mocking them and filled with contempt. She especially pitied his poor uncle, who had seemed to her to be the kindest and wisest of their family.
Tyrion endured Joffrey's ceaseless disrespects with dignity and good temper, though she could see his black and green eyes flashing. Sansa watched as gifts were bestowed upon the couple, surprised when she heard her own name called.
"From Lord Jaime and Lady Sansa Lannister," declared the presenter, and she recognized him as a one of Jaime's bannermen's sons. It made sense, since his father would be North with Jaime. Joffrey shot her a suspicious glance before accepting it. One of the other men led forward, to her surprise, a great lion, tame and rippling tawny. "He notes: never forget your roots."
Joffrey surveyed the lion with glee; he jumped forward to take the golden leash from its handler, who protested but was ushered away. Joffrey tied it to his throne, extremely satisfied in the gift from his daring and often thoughtless uncle.
Sansa saw Cersei sigh and grind her teeth a little bit. She did, too, at Jaime's mindless indulgence. Who on earth would give his nephew 'his son..' a lion for his wedding?
But the gifts moved onwards. Sansa flinched when Joffrey chopped his uncle Tyrion's great and ancient book in half with the sword he'd received from Lord Tywin. It looked oddly similar to the black and red one in Jaime's armory, she noticed.
But the book was a terrible loss indeed. Very few of its copies existed in the world, and Sansa could only imagine the trouble Tyrion went through to get his hands on one of them. She felt terrible for him, as he struggled to accept Joffrey's rash stupidity with the grace and goodness of a courtier.
The dinner went from bad to worse. Joffrey's humor spiraled wildly as he drank from his wedding chalice, the goblet nearly as tall as Margaery. He screamed at the entertainers, the servants, at anybody who claimed his attention. Margaery tried to calm him, but he ignored her entirely.
Clapping his hands, he smugly called forward the last entertainers.
It was two dwarves, one seated on a dog and one seated on a pig. As they jousted, Joffrey jeered at his poor uncle Tyrion, whose face had frozen into a mask of indifference. Sansa tried not to pay attention; they were all Lannisters, bickering with one another beneath the cold formality of a Stark.
But Joffrey wasn't done; offended, he moved towards his uncle for a comment he'd made, and Sansa jumped as wine slopped from the goblet clenched in his hand over her dress. Joffrey was very, very drunk; he dropped the goblet and demanded that Tyrion pick it up. When the dwarf reached for it, Joffrey kicked it farther away and laughed.
Furious, Sansa rose to her feet. She couldn't bear it anymore, couldn't sit and listen to Joffrey's selfish, hateful laugh. She could have struck him, she was so angry.
But she was a lady. Instead of striking Joffrey and being done with it, she quietly turned and helped Lord Tyrion to his feet. His mismatched eyes were surprised at the unexpected support from his brother's quiet young wife.
"Here, I'll hold if while you pour," she said gently, taking the goblet from him. He nodded, touched, and took a wine jug from a servant. She could feel Joffrey's distasteful eyes on her, but she ignored him entirely. When the cup was full she returned it to Tyrion.
They exchanged a moment of understanding, a moment where family ties dropped and she was a lonely girl and he was an outcast from his own family. He gave her a wretched, lopsided smile before taking the cup and turning to his nephew.
Joffrey took a swig from the cup, eyeing both Tyrion and Sansa with arrogance and contempt, a laugh still on his fat lips. He swigged again, and Margaery called to him to return to her.
He began to turn, but he never made it to his wife. Staggering, Joffrey Baratheon collapsed and began to choke. His face turned bright red, and he coughed and coughed but couldn't draw breath. Sansa gasped when she heard Cersei scream, the most terrible sound she had ever heard.
Joffrey's fingers drew blood as he clawed at his own throat desperately, unable to draw breath. His mother rushed to his side immediately, her face streaked with tears as she shook him, pounded his chest, anything to make her son breathe again.
Joffrey raised a shaking hand, his eyes bulging with terror in the face of death, and his finger pointed straight at Tyrion. Then Joffrey Baratheon, heir to King Robert, brother to two young siblings, Jaime and Cersei's son and Margaery's husband, choked one last time before he died.
The court was silent for a heartbeat.
Then, suddenly, it exploded everywhere. There was screaming, rushing, crying from the commoners, singers drawing close, guards sealing off the arches, and general havoc. Only Sansa stood very still, the strangest sense of satisfaction and grief mingling inside of her. She smiled, slowly, hauntingly...a true smile.
"You!" screamed Cersei Lannister, her hands shaking and her face bright with agonizing sadness. "You bitch!" She ran forward and slapped Sansa, so hard that the girl lost her breath. Stunned, Sansa stumbled backwards. Her hands came up to defend herself, but Cersei was relentless. Her hands struck the poor girl, again and again, nails curled into talons. "You killed my son! You killed my son!"
Sansa felt a low fury bubbling in her, and suddenly her arm cocked back and she had punched the Queen Regent.
"I didn't kill your bastard, but I wish I had," she spat forcefully, the deliciously hateful poison that bubbled for so long inside of her finally spilling out. Cersei's face was horrible, and at once two guards had her by the arms.
"Take her away!" screamed Cersei, her beautiful face a wreck of agony and fury. Her golden curls had come loose, and flew about her face like those of a vengeful goddess. Even in her grief, she was magnificent. Sansa could have punched her again. "Lock her in the dungeons with that vile dwarf! I'll see her dead if it kills me!"
The next thing she knew, she was being dragged off by the guards. The courtyard disappeared behind her, and good riddance. Sansa felt a rush of many emotions; delight at Joffrey's death, satisfaction at letting Cersei know exactly how she felt, sadness at the violent whirlpool at whose center was the widowed Margaery.
"Wait," burst Sansa, struggling for the first time. The guards ignored her, pulling her onwards. "Wait, wait, please, let me go to my room first! Ser Jaime's room, let me go!" They continued to ignore her, but their hands were gentle on her arms. Their expressions told her everything; they would not hurt a lady, but she was not trusted. They thought she'd try to pull something.
Sansa fell quiet and let them take her.
The dungeons were cold and damp. Sansa shuddered; all her life she'd been coddled in warmth and brightness. This new world was an alien one to her. She stepped down the stairs with all the elegance and ladylike manners she'd ever learned. It was the hardest thing to do, to still be a lady here.
But she walked with dignity into the cell they opened for her. She stood inside, her hands folded demurely in the tresses of her fine gown. Sansa Stark recovered a lady as always.
The guards looked uncomfortable, but not regretful. They would not free her, not after they suspected her for having a hand in the murder of the king.
"What did you need from Ser Jaime's room?" one finally asked her softly. He was young, an honest soldier. Sansa smiled sadly at them from behind bars.
"My silver lute, please."
They nodded and left her. Alone in a dank corner of the dungeons, she finally sank to her knees and cried.
Many people visited her in the dungeons, but few were friendly.
Various members of the court came to spit abuse at her, and once Cersei came and asked in a low, controlled voice for a confession. Sansa remained silent, and Cersei had left her.
The dungeons were no place for a lady of the court. Sansa knew that, by right, she was supposed to be held captive in her own rooms, but no one would help her now. She had no father to defend her rights, no brothers, no kingdom. Her own husband was far North fighting Stannis's men, and he likely knew nothing of what had happened.
Sansa had been alone for over a week, kept in nearly pitch black. She hadn't cried since her first night, though she felt like crying all the time. Her silver lute lay quiet in her fingers, though she would pluck herself a sad tune once in a while. The worst part was not knowing for how long she was down there. There were no windows, no lamps. She never knew what time of day it was.
The food they served her was of higher quality than that received by other captives, she knew. It was no bread and water; her bread was accompanied by fruits, honey, and wine, though of the plainest caliber. She took comfort in the fact that they fed her.
Sansa thought of her father, how he had once been kept in this very same dungeon for plotting to overthrow Joffrey, and she laughed bitterly. This, then, was her penance. She felt more at peace now than she ever had in the Lannister household. Perhaps they would behead her and finish the family trend.
She counted the time on her heartbeats, when she slept and woke, and by how often she was fed. It was more often than Eddard Stark had been, she would have bet on that. Margaery would not leave her friend starving, as helpless as she was to save Sansa.
One day, a rather short man was allowed into the dungeons. He held a small oil lamp in his left hand. To his right was a member of the guard. Sansa stood and brushed the mud from her dress, though it was to little effect. But she would always be a lady.
"Lord Baelish," she greeted him, and he held out his hand through the bars. She placed hers in his, and he drew her forward to kiss her fingers lightly. It was almost funny. "What brings you to my humble dwelling?"
"This will be your death, Sansa," he said bluntly, cutting straight through courtesies. "Already they gather a court to hear you, but rest assured they will not be kind. Ser Payne's sword will be through your neck in a fortnight."
Sansa took the blow with calm acceptance. She bowed her head. "I can only trust that my innocence will see me through this," she said quietly. "The gods are not cruel. They will bring me safely through the darkness."
"The gods are cruel, and you of anybody should know this," he said impatiently. Keys jingled in his hand as he unlocked her cell. "You were supposed to stay out of the way. The dwarf should have taken the entirety of the fall, but for your damned courtesies. Come, I'm bringing you out of here."
"I will not be a refugee," she said angrily, drawing away from him. She glanced at the guard, but he'd been bought. His back was to her as he watched the door. "I am innocent, and I will go to this trial to be cleansed of this horrible accusation. I cannot leave. They will not kill me." She was sure of it. Her hand briefly touched her belly, and Petyr's quick eyes caught the motion.
"Your lion cub will not save you," said Petyr shortly. "Lord Tywin has lost his eldest grandson. If he believes you a threat to his claim, he will find another brood mare for Jaime. Now come, before anybody sees."
"I expect no justice," she said evenly, not moving towards him. "I know that the court will not rule in my favor. But as a noblewoman, I cannot shame myself by fleeing."
"You would rather die, than be shamed?" burst Petyr furiously, quietly. His eyes were dark and angry. "You would rather end the Stark name, and leave your castle pillaged, than have a few courtiers speak badly of you?" Her eyes met his with a confidence that shattered him.
"I am not a traitor, nor am I a murderer. I redeem the Stark name," she said coolly. "As a noblewoman, I am granted trial by combat, to be judged by the gods." Petyr's eyes widened, and he stood silent for a moment. Sansa had many people who would fight and die for her honor, even at a court where she was a suspected murderer. The favor of an heiress could mean titles, lands, anything, once she was free to reclaim Winterfell.
"Shall I bring a message for you?" he asked her quietly, finally understanding. "Shall I call your husband to your aid?"
Sansa was quiet. She thought carefully, but the answer was already there.
"No. He will not help me." When it was Sansa versus Cersei, she knew on whose side her husband would stand. Littlefinger should have known, too. But Sansa knew who would come to her, no matter the obstacles, as much as he might despise her.
"I want you to send a message to my brother."
"Your brother? You mean...Lord Tyrion? I'm sorry, I cannot allow this, he is held captive too, and I have not the gold in the world to reach him."
"Not him, my trueborn brother. Send a message to Jon at the Wall."
Petyr's eyes widened briefly, and then from his tunic he drew a short quill and a scrap of parchment. "And what shall it say, my lady?"
Jaime sat in the officer's tent, sweating slightly. Stannis would be at the crick that night, if their information had been correct.
"Make sure the men are ready," he told his squire. "Tell the captains to let them drink and make merry while the sun is up, but at sunset we mount for the river." The young man nodded and rode away. Jaime sat at his low table, counting forces and measuring his odds.
The sound of hooves drew his attention. Someone was riding hard towards him, and he stood and opened the flap to his tent. A chestnut was flying to him, a messenger from south. He waited until they were close enough for him to see their banner.
It was blank. There was no symbol to it. It was merely a green flag.
The rider stumbled from the horse, calling for him. Jaime moved forward and signaled one of his guards to check him. They roughly patted him down and declared him unarmed. Jaime still kept his distance, but his interest had been caught.
"Might I help you?" he asked dryly. The messenger, breathless, thrust a scroll at him. He nodded to his own bannerman to take it.
"My lady requests your presence at court, lord Jaime," said the man quickly. "Your wife is in danger." Jaime raised his eyebrows, and turned to his bannerman.
"It says that Cersei's son has been killed, my lord!" gasped the bannerman. "Your wife is held captive in the dungeons until her trial, alongside your brother's, is completed! There is no seal or signet."
"Who is your lady?" asked Jaime, his focus entirely on the slender man in front of him. "Who brings me this message?" He was sure he'd get one from Cersei soon, and wondered if this man was a legitimate source. But the man drew tall and bowed, recovering his breath.
"She will not be written, so as to throw her in jeopardy," said the man firmly, explaining the lack of signature. "But my lady is the young queen Margaery Tyrell."
Yay! Managed to get another chapter up before I leave this week! haha so if I don't post for the next 2-4 weeks, please don't be worried, it means my internet connection is shitty. But I'll still be writing, so after approximately a month I might throw up several chapters at once.