Early June, 300 AC
Snowwing cooed, exulting in the cool autumn breeze beneath her wings as she swooped over the Street of the Sisters. Sansa wished she could share the dove's joy, but her tummy was cramping, the pain so bad she could feel it even with her body back in the godswood.
It was the second time her red flower had bloomed, some six weeks after the first. Lady Catelyn had once told her that moon blood gained its name from the fact that it came once every moon, but the women of the hollow hill had disagreed. They said that the unwanted guest visited at random, perhaps every two months, or every month and a half, or at random.
Sansa would be quite happy if her flower did not bloom again for a very long time, but it had returned yesterday. Neither the queen nor anyone else seemed to know about her flowering, and she wanted it to stay that way. Shae must not have told, for what reason Sansa could not say. Surely such information would have been well rewarded.
Brella had noticed too, to her dismay. The older woman had presented Sansa with fresh smallclothes and moon cloths this morning before her bath.
"Not a word, m'lady, you can trust me. I never said naught about Lord Renly's affairs," the woman whispered to Sansa while pouring warm water over her head. "I'd thought Ser Loras would hire me when he returned to the city, the ungrateful…" she trailed off as she gently worked a tangle out of Sansa's hair.
Lord Renly had wed Lady Margaery Tyrell, but Sansa didn't see why that should lead to Ser Loras hiring the woman who had run his goodbrother's household before the war. Maybe Brella was trying to gain Sansa's confidence, maybe she had already told the queen about her moon blood.
The queen was too busy to worry about Sansa at the moment. Lord Tywin Lannister had been found dead in his solar a week past, sending the entire Red Keep into chaos the likes of which Sansa had never seen. She'd been sipping at a cup of chamomile tea alone in her rooms when Shae brought the news, her eyes as bright and wicked as her smile.
"I had it from a page who had it from a redcloak," Shae whispered. "Lord Varys summoned the queen at dawn, saying the Lord Hand wanted to speak with her urgently, and there he was, stabbed through the heart on his own desk!"
Sansa was so shocked she couldn't believe her ears, and she'd slipped her skin before she knew what she was doing. The cats were all over the Red Keep, and so were gossiping lords and ladies and servants.
In the Maidenvault the Queen of Thorns cackled as a household knight reported that Lord Tywin had been found naked, arse in the air, a pile of nightsoil under him. In the cornerfort Prince Oberyn leapt to his feet, joy mixed with confusion in his face. In the king's chambers Tommen clung to a wriggling Ser Pounce as his uncle Ser Kevan knelt, tears streaming down his face. In the White Sword Tower redcloaks searched for the Lord Commander, Ser Jaime having vanished without a trace.
That was all Sansa saw before she was yanked back to her own body by a splash of ice cold water.
"You fainted, m'lady," Shae informed her insolently, an empty pitcher dangling from her hand. There were fresh dark bruises at her wrists. "Your eyes went all white and unnatural and you couldn't hear me. Should I get a maester?"
"That won't be necessary," Sansa gasped.
By the time Sansa changed into dry clothes there were guards posted at her door, redcloaks who informed her she was not to leave her cell, not even to pray. It was mid afternoon when a tall old man with a kindly face came to fetch her.
"I am Qyburn, sweet child," he said. "Her Grace has asked me to speak with you about the Lord Hand's death."
"I don't know anything," Sansa replied, frightened. At the end of the passage they found Ser Daemon Sand and the Redwyne twins, swords gleaming at their sides as they eyed each other. Why were they hanging about? Sansa curtsied to the knights and Ser Daemon bowed before striding off.
"I've been in my cell since yesterday afternoon, I swear," Sansa told the old man. He patted her arm, as gentle as a fond grandfather.
"Of course, my lady. There's no need to fret, I promise you."
They had reached the ground level of Maegor's Holdfast when Ser Kevan Lannister strode up, his face beaded with sweat.
"You are not needed, Qyburn," Ser Kevan said brusquely. Qyburn bowed.
"I follow the queen's command, my lord. Has she changed her mind?"
"You speak to the Hand of the King," Ser Kevan replied. "The queen is indisposed."
The old man bowed again, releasing Sansa. Ser Kevan took her arm, and they turned back the way they had come. His heavy face was pale and drawn, as though he had aged ten years overnight.
"I am sorry for your loss, my lord," Sansa whispered as he led her up the stairs. Ser Kevan's arm jerked with surprise.
"Are you, my lady?" He asked dryly.
Sansa bit her lip. She wasn't sorry that Lord Tywin was dead, not when it meant that he couldn't hurt anyone else. But Tywin had been Kevan's older brother, the man he served his entire life.
"I do not know if my brother yet lives," she answered, wishing away the moisture from her eyes. "Ever since I was born, Robb was always there. To lose him—" her throat was too tight to speak.
"Tywin was as eternal at the Rock," Ser Kevan said. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her, and said nothing else before shutting her back in her cell.
At sunset the redcloaks grudgingly released Shae to fetch her mistress's dinner, and she returned bearing food and gossip. Some claimed a tiny heart of shriveled gold had been found beside the corpse. Others claimed the Kingslayer's body had been found too, his golden hand wrapped around his own throat. The Young Wolf had hired a faceless man; no, it was the work of Stannis's red priestess, a shadowbinder from Asshai. Ser Jaime had vanished in hot pursuit of the assassins; no, the assassins had kidnapped him to hold for ransom.
With a coo Snowwing landed on the statue of King Baelor the Blessed that stood at the center of the square before the Great Sept of Baelor. Whatever had happened, Tywin Lannister was dead, and today was the last day of his funeral.
Sansa had not seen the Great Sept since the day Ser Loras Tyrell dubbed Olyvar Sand a knight. Thousands had packed the square, cheering lustily as Sansa tried to look at the Dornish knight without thinking of how he had terrified her. Perhaps he had been having a nightmare of fighting the Mountain, but it had scared her all the same, and she hadn't dared visit his sick bed again.
But a lady always remembered her courtesies, and so Sansa had presented her champion with a single red rose, the crowd cheering even louder as Olyvar accepted it, tucking the rose into his belt.
Less attention had been paid to the white roses she left behind when she left, the last of all the highborn lords and ladies to depart, placing them gently on the spot where her father's blood had profaned the holy ground. Ser Balon Swann had been her guard that day, and while he'd given her an odd look he'd not said a word. To her relief the Hound had not guarded her since the trial by combat. With Ser Gregor dead the Clegane lands were now his, and he'd ridden west to take charge of them.
For the past moon's turn the knights of the Kingsguard had taken turns guarding her. Ser Balon Swann was gracious, Ser Addam Marbrand was stern, and Ser Boros Blount was growly. Ser Jaime never guarded her, as he was always busy with King Tommen or the queen. It was Ser Lyn Corbray who guarded her most often, always ready with a cutting smile and crude japes that made her uncomfortable.
Snowwing cooed as she fluttered down to the steps of the Great Sept. She seemed to coo constantly, as chatty as a serving girl. There had been lots of flowers here, but now there weren't any at all. Flowers? Sansa asked. The dove cooed. The walking two-leggers had been putting flowers here for ages, always at the same spot. She pecked at the stone, marking where Sansa had left her white roses. When did the flowers go away?
The dove hopped uncertainly, cooing at a cluster of pigeons nearby. Since the day the riding two-leggers came with the bad smell, a brown speckled pigeon answered. Sansa's heart skipped a beat. The Lord Hand's body had lain in state for seven days. There had been flowers for Eddard Stark, nearly two years after his death, but none for Tywin Lannister.
The evening prayers tonight would mark the end of the funeral. To her relief Sansa was not been allowed to attend. Afternoon prayers were for the smallfolk alone, and Snowwing watched as a thin stream trickled into the sept. Most were soldiers, westermen come from their camp outside the city. Sansa wondered if they had come willingly or if their commanders had urged their attendance.
By the time the enormous doors closed to mark the beginning of the afternoon service Sansa was as bored as Snowwing. The dove was only too happy to fly back to the godswood and peck at the seeds Sansa had scattered around the weirwood. She'd bribed Shae and Brella to scatter more in the yard, her thanks to the starlings and sparrows who had answered her scream for help.
The singers claimed that the Seven had sent the birds as a sign of favor, defending the righteousness of Sansa's cause and condemning Lord Tywin's many sins. The High Septon told a different tale, claiming the Maiden had sent the birds for the sake of a harmless maid tragically afflicted by madness. There was certainly no judgment against the noble Hand of the King, and no truth to the Stark girl's wild accusations. Her brother's defeat had driven her mad, that was all. From what Shae said the smallfolk seemed to trust the singers more than the High Septon.
Let's go see Brienne, Sansa urged the dove . With Ser Jaime vanished Lady Brienne remained confined in her cell all day, alone and friendless. Sansa was not permitted to visit the warrior maid, not even after she'd asked Prince Oberyn to intercede for her.
When Snowwing finally found the right window it was shut tight. With Sansa's encouragement the dove pecked at the glass. Had they taken Brienne away? Or had she finally been ransomed? Snowwing pecked and pecked to no avail, and finally Sansa told her to give up. Afternoon services would be done by now, and she wanted to see how the commons behaved when the procession for the evening services arrived from the Red Keep.
Evening services were open to all. Shae had begged to attend, and Sansa had granted her leave. The maid had been in an odd mood all week, a certain vindictive glee hanging upon her like a necklace. Her bruises were almost faded away; perhaps that had something to do with it.
Snowwing glided back to the Street of Sisters. During the afternoon heat the smallfolk had mostly kept out of the sun, but the street was crowded now. Dozens of begging brothers lined the road, their roughspun robes belted with hempen rope. Their feet were blackened and hard as wood, their faces red with anger.
"Faithless, oathbreaker, murderer, craven!"
The voices rang as one, a cry that echoed up and down the streets. The great western lord Crakehall had slain one of them a few weeks past, and the redcloaks had imprisoned many of them, but that had only made them angrier. There were too many of them to imprison them all.
For every begging brother there were a hundred sparrows, poor folk come to King's Landing. They had been streaming into the city for weeks, devout smallfolk enraged by the rape of the Riverlands and the Red Wedding. The High Septon, a wizened old man with a wispy white beard, had tried to calm them to no avail. The sparrows denounced him as corrupt, a tool of the Lannisters. The previous High Septon had tried to stop them from executing father, Sansa remembered. The fat old man had clutched at Joffrey's cape, and afterwards she'd heard that he was very angry. She didn't know anything about the new one.
"The wrath of the gods is upon us!" A begging brother shouted. "See how the Seven strike down the wicked! The Faithless Hand is brought low, his very corpse reeks of his corruption! Oathbreaker, murderer, craven!"
The queen will have the goldcloaks kill them all, Sansa thought, horrified. Ser Kevan was already at the sept, and Ser Addam Marbrand with him. The queen's procession would be here any moment, escorted by a host of goldcloaks led by Ser Lyn Corbray and Ser Boros Blount, men who would be only too happy to bloody their swords.
"Oathbreaker, murderer, craven!"
It's my fault, Sansa thought, aghast. She had meant to speak out against Tywin's cruelty, to remind the court of his crimes, but she did not want holy men and common folk to die because of her words. It was bad enough that Olyvar had nearly lost his arm; how many would be slaughtered tonight?
"Oathbreaker, murderer, craven!"
Among the sparrows stood a dwarf, his bulbous nose familiar. He was at the combat. Snowwing cooed in distress but Sansa's will was stronger, and the bird dove toward the dwarf.
Flee , Sansa shrieked as Snowwing flapped at the dwarf's head. The queen will kill you all; flee, flee!
"Maiden?" The dwarf's coarse voice was filled with wonder.
"Oathbreaker, murderer, craven!"
She could hear the clopping of hooves in the distance, the whinnying of horses, the flapping of banners in the wind.
"OATHBREAKER, MURDERER, CRAVEN!"
Flee! Snowwing beat her wings, driving the dwarf toward the closest alley. Some of the sparrows were crying out, pointing at the bird.
"This way!" The dwarf bellowed. "Follow the maiden's dove!" A flock of sparrows broke away from the rest, fleeing single file through the alley. The rest stayed where they were, still chanting, led by a thin septon with a sharply pointed face.
"OATHBREAKER, MURDERER, CRAVEN!"
Lead them out of here, Sansa ordered Snowwing, praying with all her might as she leapt for Ser Lyn Corbray's stallion.
She slipped into the horse's skin just as he crushed the thin septon's ribs beneath his hooves.
When Shae returned late that evening, Sansa still could not keep any food down. She had vomited up a lifetime of meals in the godswood, covering her mess with leaves. Ser Balon asked after her health most courteously before escorting her back to her cell; he was one of the ones who believed the High Septon, and treated Sansa as though she was made of spun glass.
"Near two score of them sparrows were killed before the rest run off," Shae told Sansa as she helped her prepare for bed. "Some of them had enough sense to flee before the killing started; I heard a squire say that they were chasing after some dwarf."
"Oh," Sansa said weakly. "What happened to them?"
Shae shrugged. "I don't know, m'lady."
The next day Sansa sent her excuses to the Tyrells, pleading a headache. She could not bear to spend yet another afternoon with Margaery's ladies, not when poor folk lay dead in the street because of her. It wasn't even a lie; her red flower made her temples throb. She was lying in bed, half asleep, when a knock came at the door.
"Her Grace the Queen Regent," Ser Lyn Corbray announced as Cersei swept into the room. Sansa forced herself to sit upright, her tummy cramping.
"Your Grace."
"No need to curtsy, child," the queen said indulgently. "I heard you were feeling poorly and thought I might provide some comfort."
"You are too kind, Your Grace." The door thudded shut behind Ser Lyn, leaving Sansa alone with the queen.
"I have been hard on you, Sansa," the queen said, smoothing her skirts as she sat on the featherbed. "I believe I owe you an apology."
"An apology?" Sansa asked warily.
"Why, for accusing you of involvement in Joffrey's death. I'm sure you loved him dearly. Poor sweet girl, no wonder all your losses have driven you mad." The queen sighed, running a gentle hand through Sansa's hair.
"I've been remiss, Sansa. You've been left here in this tower cell all alone, with nothing to do but pray and pass the time with those insipid Tyrells and untrustworthy Dornish. Well, we'll have no more of that. From now on you shall be one of my ladies."
"I am honored, Your Grace." There was nothing else Sansa could say. This was a a new kind of imprisonment, one that Ser Kevan could not object to.
The queen smiled, withdrawing a silk bag from the folds of her gown.
"I have a gift for you, little dove. You should feel welcome among my ladies of the Westerlands." She placed the heavy bag upon Sansa's lap. "Open it."
The bag's contents proved to be a golden collar. A tear drop ruby the size of a pigeon's egg hung from the center; lion claws dangled from the sides, the tips of the claws sharp as needles.
"Let me help you," the queen purred. Her slim fingers were gentle as she fastened the collar around Sansa's throat, the lion claws pricking her skin. The collar felt too tight, the ruby hanging heavily at the hollow of her throat.
"You are too generous, Your Grace," Sansa said uneasily, her breaths shallow.
"Think nothing of it." The queen tugged at the collar as though checking the fit. "You shall wear it whenever you leave your cell; it shall remind those vultures that you are under Lannister protection." Lannister imprisonment, Sansa thought bitterly. "Besides, a gift is only appropriate to celebrate a girl's flowering."
All the air seemed to have left the room. Blood pounded in Sansa's ears.
"My— my—"
The queen laughed.
"Never fear, little dove. You shall be well taken care of. A poor helpless maid requires a husband, one that can take care of her in her madness. Of course, your madness makes you quite unfit for a high lord. Perhaps Sandor Clegane? He has lands and a keep now that Ser Gregor is dead. So remote; no one ever knew much of what Ser Gregor did there, or how those two wives of his died so young. Or perhaps Ser Ilyn Payne? You'd have to live at court, of course, you could remain one of my ladies while sharing his chambers."
"You can't," Sansa replied, trying not to vomit at the memory of the Hound's hungry eyes, of the old executioner raising his blade, his gaunt face like a death's head. "I won't. Even the High Septon cannot declare a maid wed if she won't say the vows."
"Oh, you'll say them, though it's up to you whether you visit the black cells again first. Everyone shall believe you confined to your rooms with some illness, but you'll be screaming where no one can hear you." The queen yanked on the collar, her green eyes blazing.
"I can marry you to whoever I like. To anyone. You'll marry a sparrow if I say so, and bed down with him in the gutter. Be grateful I've decided to let you choose your own husband."
"Choose?" The world was spinning.
"Yes, I had considered selecting a husband for you, but I decided it would be more amusing to make you pick your own poison. You shall sew your own maiden cloak while I provide you with a list of suitors, all loyal to the crown, of course. My cousin Lucion might serve; he's much too highborn for you but I hear he is quite rough with his serving girls. Don't fret, Sansa, when you join me tomorrow I'm sure I shall have even more… dashing men for you to consider. I shall allow you a month or two to ready your maiden cloak before you make your choice."
The queen pressed cold lips to Sansa's sweaty brow.
"May you have sweet dreams of your future husband," Cersei purred.
The door thudded shut behind the queen. Sansa rose to her feet, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe. White spots danced in her vision, her fingers thick and clumsy as she fumbled at the collar, trying to find the clasp.
"M'lady!" Shae was a blur as Sansa sank to her knees.
"Collar," Sansa gasped, and then the darkness took her.
Notes:
1) In canon Brienne met the pious dwarf at Duskendale. It's later implied he was murdered by bounty hunters who tried to tell Cersei he was Tyrion. He's alive here because there was no bounty out for the long dead Tyrion.
2) Only Cersei would decide to torture someone by gifting them a fortune in gold and jewels. And yet it worked! The collar is a deliberate reference to the black diamond collar Tyrion gave Shae- a creepy mark of ownership/control.
3) Poor Sansa had a panic attack. She also had one in Chapter 20, but Arya wasn't here this time to talk her through it.
4) Seriously, Jesus Christ, Cersei. Way to use the women's sphere as a blunt weapon. Great job, Jaime, you totally saved Sansa from a cruel marriage. Dumbass.
5) Neither Shae nor Brella sold Sansa out, but Sansa has no way of knowing that.