SANSA

There was a blast of trumpets, a sudden sound, loud and proud and martial. A herald cried in a young strong voice, "All hail His Grace Renly of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"

Court rose from their seats in a rustle of cloth, in unison. Ser Cortnay Penrose, Ser Robar Royce and Lord Steffon Varner of the Rainbow Guard were first to stride into the Great Hall, cloaked in green, red and yellow. After them came the queen and king.

King Renly Baratheon looked better than he had in the first session of his court in King's Landing, a week past. When he walked, he no longer favoured his left side. Whatever wound he had received in the battle for the city must be healing well. He was smiling, a wide sunlike smile as if all in the world were lovely, yet she knew that told her nothing. On the day after the battle, she had seen him flinch with sudden pain when his leg was grasped as he dismounted, and he had still been smiling.

The king made his way to the Iron Throne, followed by the other four of his Rainbow Guard. He turned around from that monstrous mess of metal and sat down among the upward-pointing blades with careless grace, as if he had done it every day of his life. Court remained standing, silent, waiting.

"My friends, be seated," said the king.

And they were.

Sansa sat much closer to the Iron Throne than in her first session, a seat of honour, and she was clad in as fine a gown as any of the ladies of King Renly's court. She wore grey and white, Stark colours, quiet, subdued, but many of the others dazzled with red and blue and green and gold and purple. Next to this riot of colour, there was a whole host of ragged greys and browns, outnumbering the bright highborn: the common cityfolk, come to watch the king's decisions. There had never been nearly so many of them here in Joffrey's day.

The king smiled broadly at them all.

"I bring good tidings, my friends," he said. "Yesterday eve, a raven bore me word from my dear bride's lord father. He has humbly consented to serve me as my Hand, and even as we speak, he is riding to this city."

Bride's father? Queer choice of words. It would be more common to say, simply, 'goodfather'. Mayhaps he fears sounding too subordinate to Lord Tyrell…

"I have not yet received word from Prince Doran," continued the king, "but that worries me not. Sunspear is further than Highgarden. Even if he were to reply as soon as he saw my message, his bird would not yet have reached us; and I'm told he is a cautious man, not prone to making choices hastily.

"Let us hope that he makes them wisely. I would be surprised if House Martell were to throw in its lot with the Lannister usurpers, given… their family history. It would seem that neither honour nor prudence would recommend that course. But if the Prince of Dorne thinks elsewise, my leal Lord of Stonehelm commands a great host of stormlanders at Blackhaven, well-placed to block the Boneway, and my even greater host at Highgarden lies not far from the Prince's Pass. Any assault upon the Dornish marches will be swiftly repelled. Invading through the Red Mountains is no easy task, and the advantage lies with the defender; but that sword cuts both ways. Prince Doran would be wise to consider this, should he like the notion of declaring for the bastard girl the Whore of the West placed in his custody, instead of sending her here to take holy orders in this city, as I required of him." He paused. "The Dornish have always liked their spices strong, but I fear the intensity of the flavour I've put in the marches may make even Dornish tongues burn."

Oh, thought Sansa, as court burst out laughing at the king's jape. She had wondered why Renly was saying this, for, unless some of the lords at his court were spies, these words could only be conveyed to Sunspear by ship, not raven, and by the time they arrived, Prince Doran would likely have already made his choice. But now she understood. This was not really a threat to Prince Doran. King Renly's words were not meant for the Prince of Dorne. The king's true purpose was to reassure the marcher lords among his own men that their lands were safe in their absence.

Soon King Renly resumed speaking. "I hope that Dorne will soon return to the king's peace. Sadly I cannot say the same of all the Seven Kingdoms. The bastard usurper Joffrey is likely alive on Dragonstone, and the rebel lord Tywin Lannister still has an army in the lands of the Trident. These traitors must be brought to heel. I have sent word to Lord Paxter Redwyne of the liberation of his sons. He is no longer prevented from aiding us with all the strength at his disposal. We'll know if he does not. The fleet of the Arbour will come to this city, and the Lumberjacks' Guild has my permission to fell trees in the kingswood, as I'm in need of a new royal fleet. I expect Dragonstone will be ours within a year, at most two. But the rebel army in the riverlands requires a more… a more direct touch.

"Four-thousand men will remain to defend this city. Not too many traitors escaped to Dragonstone; I judge that number will suffice. They'll be under the command of the lord Hand upon his arrival, and he will join them with another two-thousand men. Till that day, my leal Lord of Sunhouse will lead them."

Branston Cuy, a broad-shouldered Reachlord of middle years, stood up and bowed before the king. His face held no surprise. "You honour me, Your Grace."

"I do," said the king. "Into your hands I entrust the heavy responsibility of protecting the people of King's Landing till your liegelord arrives. I'll depart, for I am king and the realm needs must be put to rights. Yet this city must not fall to the bastard usurper, should his host of traitors issue forth from Dragonstone." His voice rose. "A king's word must be kept, and I promised that my people will never be tormented by the likes of Kevan Lannister ever again!"

"Thanks be to the king!" the smallfolk of King's Landing roared, and "Hail the king!" and "Death to traitors!" and "Good King Renly!" and a whole host of variations on those themes. There was no uniformity in their words, but their approval was clear and overpowering. Their clamour drowned out all other sound, and it seemed that King Renly Baratheon basked in the warmth of their regard, smiling and waving at them.

It seemed to go on for an age. Sansa did not know how long she sat there, listening to the cityfolk shower praise on their beloved king. She suspected it was as much a lesson to King Renly's followers as an expression of gratitude. The people loved him, the king was telling his court, without needing to say it in words. Not the lords of the south, not his vassals, him. They were part of his strength, the key that had unlocked the capital of Westeros for him, and all would do well to remember that.

At last, as the cheers and chants were dying down somewhat, a handsome young man rose to speak to the king. Sansa recognised him from the first session of Renly's court as Ser Jon Osgrey, a knight sworn to the Rowans of Goldengrove. The king had promised him a keep of his own for exceptional courage and heroism in the Battle of King's Landing. "Your Grace!" he called. "Your Grace!"

King Renly heard him, and turned to him, bestowing upon him a smile bright as the sun. "My good ser?"

"The Lannisters have not the strength to require Your Grace's whole host in the riverlands, and the west is scarce defended," Ser Jon declared. "Robb Stark had not the strength to take Lannisport and lay siege to the Rock, but we do have the strength, even when waging a campaign in the riverlands at the same time. If Lord Tywin defeats Lord Robb and escapes into his homeland, we will need to take the west. If we are to do that, better to do it not by the nigh-impassable mountains of the westerlands' border in the north, but by the southern way; and if we are to go that way, it is better that Your Grace send a host thither now, not march northward into the riverlands then have to go back south again, wasting precious time. The great knight Bittersteel proved it could be done, when he cut through those gentle rolling hills like a knife through cheese to invade the westerlands a hundred years ago. And are the knights of these days so greatly less valiant than he? Shall we see? Your Grace, we the men of the northmarch know the land well, and it's a campaign we have long awaited. All that you need do is give us the command, and we'll test our valour next to the valour of our ancestors; and, Warrior be willing, this time next year, Your Grace will feast in Lannisport!"

This aroused a great cry of approval, especially from other men of the Reach's northmarch, though, curiously, not from Mathis Rowan their overlord. "Lannisport!" they shouted. "Lannisport!"

Once this chant had died away, Lord Randyll Tarly rose to speak. The balding Lord of Horn Hill was one of Renly's closest advisers, according to the gossip of court, and it was said the king heeded his words on many military matters. Moreover, his loyalty to King Renly was ironclad. In a session of court a few days ago, the king had announced that House Caron's House law strictly forbade female-line succession, and the death of Lord Bryce Caron in the Battle of the Blackwater had ended his House in the trueborn male line, and, as such, the Lord of Nightsong's lands had reverted to the crown. The king had divided those lands into many pieces and parcelled them out to reward many other southern lords who served him, but the biggest and most prestigious piece, including the castle of Nightsong itself, was now a fief of House Tarly, as an especially great reward for the man whom King Renly had made especially great use of. Other noble Houses had been extinguished in the war, but none other as great as House Caron. Before his death Lord Bryce had been the second-mightiest of all the stormlords, surpassed in power and wealth by none except the Lord of Storm's End, Renly himself.

"Ser, that would be wise if the Lannisters were all we faced," Lord Randyll said. "They might be. They might not. If Lord Robb allies with Lord Tywin, we'll need to keep our strength for victory in the riverlands. Unless we sent more than twenty-thousand men into the westerlands, we'd still have roughly even odds—but why accept that, when we can have almost two to one? A gambler who accepts worse odds when he can have better is a gambler who soon finds himself without any gold. Better not take the risk. We must be prepared to fight the Starks and Lannisters at the same time, in case Lord Robb chooses to be our foe."

Appalled, Sansa felt she had to speak. "My lord, my brother would never fight beside the Lannisters."

Lord Randyll opened his mouth to reply. He did not. Instead she was answered by a voice that came from on high. "Your confidence in your brother's honour is laudable, my lady, but I fear it may be misplaced," said the king on the Iron Throne. "Regrettably, men are not made of such fine stuff as the Smith our maker. Men can be base and vile, and ambitious. If Lord Tywin offers your brother a crown, accepting the mutilation of the realm so as to preserve his own miserable life, and sending Joffrey to the Wall and elevating the equally bastard-born Tommen as a sop to Stark vengeance… might Lord Robb accept that offer? I don't think it impossible."

Sansa felt as if she were drowning, clutching for wood. He's to march against Lord Tywin. He can't march against Robb, he cannot. I prayed for him to win. "The Lannisters killed my lord father, Your Grace," she said. "I do not think my brother will forget that."

"Nor do I," said King Renly, to her surprise. "I don't expect Lord Robb to rebel against me. I've given him no cause to despise me, unlike the Lannisters, and your lord father was reputed to be an honourable man. And yet I am king. And because I am king, I cannot disregard such possibilities merely because I dislike them; I must be prepared to defend the realm, no matter what. If it transpires that your brother has more virtue than ambition, my terms to him will be fair. And if it transpires that his ambition is stronger than his virtue, I shall be ready to protect the realm."

The king continued to speak. He was no longer addressing her. His voice rose and filled the Great Hall of the Red Keep in all its vastness, seemingly effortlessly.

"In the time before Aegon the Conqueror, Westeros was a mess of endless warring between far too many kingdoms with nobody to keep them in line. Aegon ended that when he forged the Seven Kingdoms into one united realm. Since then, we have achieved so much together, built laws and roads and periods of continent-spanning peace that would have been unimaginable then. In that time, there was never a year that some or other part of our continent was not consumed in rivers of blood and fires of war. Even these dark treason-tainted days are a thousand times more blessed than those long accursed ages before Aegon came.

"I will not allow all of that work to be undone. I will not allow anyone—be he Lannister or Greyjoy or any other—to commit a deed of such unspeakable evil as to destroy everything that the folk of Westeros have worked for in three-hundred years, returning us to an era of endless hate.

"I am king now, descendant of Aegon the Conqueror. I am now Protector of the Realm. And as long as I draw breath, I will never, ever allow the realm to be torn asunder."

Lord Randyll stood, drawing his greatsword. "Long live the king!"

Then Lord Staedmon. "Long live the king!"

Ser Donnel Swann, next. "Long live the king!"

And another, and another, and another… the knights and lords of the south stood, baring steel, arrayed before King Renly, endless male voices of every type and timbre melding into one, shouting those same words of acclamation:

"Long live the king! Long live the king!"

It was an evening three days later that Sansa stood at a window high in the Red Keep, overlooking the army outside the city walls. Many had been living in the great barracks that used to be the Dragonpit. That had ended now. Only those men who were to stay under Lord Cuy's command were still sleeping in the city. The men who were going to march were in their companies, outside. They were nearly ready to leave. She would be leaving with King Renly's host, and King Renly's host would march tomorrow.

Men chattered and dined at their campfires. Their voices were audible even from here, though she could not make out any of the words that they were saying.

She tried to count the campfires once. She got to half a hundred before she gave up. She could not tell which ones she had already counted and which ones she had not, but that was not what made her give up. What made her give up was that she could not reach the end, for they were no longer distinguishable. The faraway fires merged into each other like a continuous line of light at the horizon and doubtless beyond, as uncountable and as unstoppable as sunrise.

A shiver ran through her. She could not look at them any more. Sansa turned away, and headed down to the Red Keep's godswood.

The godswood was quiet, and the wind played in her hair. She let it. She was thinking of the Lannisters, with all their cruelty and cunning, all their tricks like their impossibly large amounts of wildfire, and the betrayal of the Florents, and how they had somehow won the allegiance of the royal fleet and then concealed it… with all the cleverness of their leaders and all the courage of their men… with the high walls of King's Landing, specifically King's Landing, which forced Renly to play into their hands and attack despite all the disadvantages of attacking, because it was the capital, the only city that contained the throne he was fighting the war to gain, the only all-important target that he could never ignore, for, in the eyes of many in Westeros, the man who held King's Landing was the king.

They had gone against that line of light on the horizon. None of it had been enough.

All of that… Did Robb have so much more?

Sansa shivered again, though it was not too cold. She knelt before the great oak that was the heart-tree, and she entreated the old gods, the gods of the north, of Robb, of her lord father.

Keep my brother safe, she begged them voicelessly, not daring to speak aloud. Renly Baratheon may not be the man he wants the world to think he is. He may be a monster. But they're all monsters, and this monster is the strongest of them, and this monster has no grudge against our family. Yet.

Old gods, gods of my father… grant Robb the power to win whichever battles he must win, and the wisdom to know which battles not to fight. Let the Lannisters alone be up against that line of light on the horizon. Let Robb be free of it. Let him accept the bargain Renly offers him. Let him, let all of us return to Winterfell. Let us never go south again.

I've already lost two brothers, surely for any god that's cruelty enough. Please don't make me lose three.