AN: Have a busy few weeks, and may not have the time to upload, so here's a chapter early.

A long time ago, when she was a girl, before Joffrey had killed her father, Sansa had thought that being Queen meant being married to the King and giving him golden princes. She had dreamt that all the ladies would be delighted by her, while all the knights would beg for her favour. As queen she would be pretty and compassionate and charitable to the smallfolk, and they would all love her.

Sansa knew now that the ladies could not always be trusted, and the knights even less so. They would beat her if the king so commanded. She had been bred to be queen, she knew, but now that she was one, it seemed as if she did not know what to do. The role had been thrust on her so unexpectedly. A small part of her was excited to be the first lady of the Kingdom, the small part that still believed in hope and happiness, yet a large part of her wished that she could be back in Winterfell again. Safe from all the ugliness that she knew lived in court.

They were all very kind to her again. Just the way they had been when her Lord Father had been Hand. Everyone bowed and treated her with the greatest deference once more, but Sansa knew to be wary. Even though all of Joffrey's Kingsguard had fled with him, there were knights and lords aplenty who had seen her humiliation and not said a word. Sansa knew that they probably would have been punished as well had they spoken out, but she knew too, that they hadn't even tried. Only the Hound had helped, Sansa recalled, when Sansa had saved Ser Dontos at the tourney, but the Hound was gone. The Lannisters had called him dog, but he was the best among them.

Now, ever since the day of the trial, things had been frenzied, so much so that Sansa scarcely knew what was happening. She had awoken the next day, and everyone had started calling her Your Grace. Her husband had been busier still. She had barely seen him and hadn't had the chance to exchange any words. She had seen him a few times with Prince Oberyn, and the ladies had informed her that they were discussing matters relating to the new Small Council and the coronation. They were still at Prince Oberyn's manse. The Red Keep was going to be cleaned and redecorated before they occupied it, so the manse was full of people, and a hive of activity.

Lady Hermione had been missing too, but that didn't surprise Sansa. The Spicer had been appointed after all by a Lannister. With their fall, it was obvious that she would have to be replaced. A part of Sansa was glad. Lady Hermione frightened her.

Sansa hoped that as Queen she would be allowed to choose her own ladies. She wondered whatever had become of Jeyne Poole, their steward's daughter. It would be nice if she could be restored to Sansa's household. Having ladies from from the North in her circle would be comforting. If she couldn't go to Winterfell, now that it had fallen to the Boltons, it would be at least a little compensation to have a bit of Winterfell come to her. Perhaps, his grace would help her reclaim Winterfell too.

Sansa's musings were interrupted by a servant, liveried in Prince Oberyn's colours who came in begging her grace's pardons. "Her Grace is being called to Prince Oberyn's solar," the messenger had told her, "where the King awaited her presence."

Sansa knew that this was the room in which important matters relating to the Kingdom were being discussed, and did not know what to make of it. Sansa hadn't really sat on her father's councils before, though she knew her lady mother had on occasion. She took care to dress well, and wore a beautiful grey gown, made of the softest silk, with a trim of red and orange. A black sash made of the finest velvet cinched her waist. It was a gown of Stark colours, colours she had worn after an age, embellished with a hint of the colours of Houses Martell and Targaryen. It had been made just days ago, by Princess Margeary's own seamstress, and Sansa had been waiting for an occasion to wear it.

Suitably dressed, she followed the servant. The guards at the door announced her when she entered, Her Grace, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa of House Targaryen and Martell. It still sounded a little strange.

The Prince's solar was decorated in the manner of Dorne. The furniture was intricately carved, yet sleek and minimal. The floor was covered with an exquisite silk carpet, and the seats were low. Oil lamps gave off the smell of the sweetest jasmine, enhancing the effect of the gilding in the walls. It was the first time that Sansa had stepped into the room, in spite of her time at the Prince's manse, and Sansa could see that it was beautiful.

Her husband was there, and Sansa curtseyed before her king. He sat expressionless, but she hoped that he was glad to see her. Prince Oberyn made up for the frosty welcome by being the epitome of grace. He bowed low as she entered and she found herself holding her hand out her hand to be kissed, as Queen Cersei had done. That felt strange, too. That's when Sansa spotted her. Behind Oberyn, slightly obscured, stood Hermione Spicer, who dipped into a clumsy, un-practiced curtsey.

Even though Sansa was queen, she had never felt more unsure of herself. No one invited her to sit, Sansa noted. Yet, who could, now that she was Queen. She outranked her host. She outranked everyone but the King, who was seated.

So she sat.

"You wished to see me, your grace?" she queried trying to betray as little nervousness as she could. She had never seen her husband dress in black before. They were severe robes, with the merest hint of white peeking out from beneath his high collar and sleeves. It was odd seeing him like this. She had always seen him in orange. Martell colours. The only hint of colour now came from the red symbols of his house at the edge of his collar. A tiny three headed dragon on one side, and the Martell sun, pierced with Nymeria's spear on the other. The black made him so much more severe, almost intimidating. A king should look the part, she told herself, though she much preferred the more approachable Prince Severus Martell.

The King spoke when she had seated herself. "As you know our circumstances have changed quite dramatically, and Prince Oberyn and I have been busy trying to navigate them. Your rank now, my lady, is the highest in the land, and with it will come privileges, responsibilities, and most of all, danger. There will need to be changes made, for your safety and mine, and that of the realm. You naturally need to be appraised of them. You must have questions as well, I daresay. I can't promise that we'll have all the answers, but we will try to muddle though this situation as well as we can. Would you like to begin?"

It came out of her mouth before she could think of it: "What's she doing here?" Sansa cried, her finger pointing at the Lannister sorceress at the back.

The gathering was more intimate than that of the Small Council. Even Princess Margaery wasn't there, yet this Spicer stood with them. At least they didn't look enchanted…

"Prince Oberyn has seen fit to knight Lady Hermione. Our kindly host believes she will be an excellent sworn shield for me. She is to throw herself in front of me in case of attack, and shield any blows that come my way. Which is why, of course, she is currently standing behind Prince Oberyn." Lady Hermione was turning red, and the King was smirking. It wasn't quite a pleasant expression.

Sansa was confused. Hadn't Lady Hermione nearly killed the man when they had wed? Why wasn't her husband more afraid? Had they come to an understanding? Was Lady Hermione a turncloak and could a turncloak be trusted? He had even borrowed the magical sword from the sorceress, she had noted earlier.

Did Prince Oberyn know what Lady Hermione had done? How she had suspended the then Prince Severus over the Red Keep's ramparts and threatened to let him fall to his death? Was he aware of her powers? How could they entrust such a person with the King's safety? As far as Sansa knew, knights killed sorcerers. Sorcerers didn't become knights. And a woman knight, too. Lady Hermione didn't even look like a knight or even someone who wanted to be one, like Arya, even as she was dressed in the practical fighting robes of Dorne. Did she even know how to fight with honour as a knight should? It was absurd.

Her confusion must have shown on her face, for Prince Oberyn started to explain, "I would not underestimate Lady Hermione, your grace. Just because she is a lady, does not make her unqualified to be a knight. My Margaery was telling me of Lady Brienne who was Kingsguard for Renly. Unusual though it may be, I come from the land of Nymeria, and mine own daughters are trained in combat."

The confidence that Prince Oberyn showed in the Spicer woman's abilities was instructive. Sansa hadn't ever seen Lady Hermione wield a weapon, and was certain that Prince Oberyn had seen less of Hermione Spicer than she had. This only meant one thing: Prince Oberyn knew that the lady was a sorceress. Yet why would he allow a Lannister sorceress to be part of the King's household, especially in a position of life and death? She asked her question.

"You know she has magic?" the Prince asked, more intrigued than surprised. "Have you seen her perform any?"

Sansa opened her mouth to tell him what she had seen, and ask why even so Lady Hermione was being thus honoured, but saw her husband shake his head discreetly. She quieted her tongue. "A little. She stopped Joffrey, once." The memory made her uncomfortable. She could still feel Joffrey's hands, high up on her thigh and see his wormy smile as he threatened her, when she thought about it. She determinedly tried to divert her mind elsewhere.

"Indeed?" At Joffrey's name, the Prince's expression became thunderous. "Make that twice." And then the story came out, of all that she had missed. Prince Oberyn spoke of the magic that had targeted her husband, that could target her, and how Lady Hemione was the only one who could stop it.

The King looked as if he did not completely agree but said nothing. It seemed that Prince Oberyn had made up his mind, anyway, and he went on seriously, "It would not be a kindness to keep you in ignorance, your grace. The usurper knows that we cannot be defeated in war, so he tried to use magic. An attempt on the King's life has already been made, and it is likely that you will be targeted as well. Ordinary guards are of no use against powers such as these, and only Lady Hermione has any defence against it." It was strange hearing about magic with such gravity, of it being acknowledged even after seeing sorcery being performed.

What Lady Hermione had done had frightened her. What she heard about blood magic frightened her even more. The blood magic that Prince Oberyn had spoken about harked back to the horror tales of Old Nan. This was the kind of magic that was stuff of nightmares, and the kind that Maester Luwin had said no longer existed, and yet Joffrey knew enough to use it.


"It is a good offer, your grace," Davos said, as Stannis paced the room. "Storm's End, a place in the small council, and peace in the realm."

"The crown was won by mummery. Should I be afraid of a glorified mummer?" he snarled angrily.

"The glorified mummer has several armies your grace. The Martells, the Tyrells…we are weakened, and cannot win a war."

"That's what they want us to think." Stannis replied coldly. "The Riverlands are still with Frey. Martell's hold there is tenuous at best, the same for the North, as Winterfell is in the hands of the Boltons. They need me, and they know it. Their sweet offer is hollow."

"Mayhaps your grace may ask for better terms, then, as they need you so."

Stannis ground his teeth. "Do I look like a fishwife to you to haggle with Severus Martell or the Viper? The viper who goes to bed with Margaery Tyrell? Renly's whore? I will not countenance a Tyrell on the throne."

Davos winced. If only the Tyrells were not involved. "Oberyn Martell does not sit the iron throne," he pointed out. "Severus Targaryen does, and he is wed to Sansa Stark. The succession will thus follow the Targaryen line, not the Martell. The letter speaks of the Targaryen restoration as well. Until Queen Sansa produces an heir, you are next in line, not Prince Oberyn, however much he may be Severus Martell's half-brother."

It was a difficult decision for sure, Davos knew. Stannis hated the Tyrells, and yet the offer was the fairest that Stannis had ever received, even from his own brothers. Storm's End was a kingdom in itself, and the succession guaranteed to Shireen was not an offer to scoff at. The Florents knew it as well. Ser Axell hadn't interrupted Davos even once, as was his wont. There was only one matter of contention: Margaery Tyrell…


The Reach was beautiful. The countryside was bounteous, and the fragrance of flowers and fruit followed them wherever they went. Lord Willas himself had come to greet Sirius when they had reached Highgarden. It was elegant, beautiful, light, airy. It looked the exact opposite of any of the Blacks's properties. Lord Willas was a handsome man, and looked much like Sirius did. He was a bit smaller than his twin, considerably less muscular, and walked with a cane, but otherwise the similarity was uncanny.

Lord Willas had been perfectly polite, even gracious, and they had been put up in the best rooms of Highgarden. Remus too had been so accommodated as Sirius's friend, in spite of his relatively low birth. But Remus knew from the way Sirius forced himself, Sirius who was always friendly by default, that there was something more.

When Sirius had come out of what Remus could only call a coma, he had acquired some memories of his Tyrell past. Sirius hadn't shared them all with him, but he had let Remus know that the Tyrells cared for no one but themselves, and Sirius had felt disillusioned. He had told Remus about the times of the mad king, who liked to burn people for sport, who raped his own sister, and how the Tyrells had supported him, all for personal gain. Remus could see the disappointment when Sirius had come to. It was obvious that Sirius was looking for a second chance, a better family than one that he had back in Britain, but had found an amoral bunch of muggles instead. The only saving grace was that they did not actively hunt their inferiors. Still, the tension had been palpable, and Remus was waiting for the chance to leave

Their days at Highgarden still went pleasantly enough, except for the one scare when Harry had been abducted en route to Darry. Harry had managed, however, to manage the situation well enough, so much so that he had been given a special place in their Brotherhood. Sirius had been most amused and declared that Prongs would have been proud. He had even teared up when Harry's stag had rushed in and asked after him. When Remus had asked Harry for his whereabouts to mount a rescue, Harry had denied them out of concern for Sirius. They had kept in touch, but Remus had so far respected Harry's wishes. Good food, excellent wine, and some discreet female company had done wonders to Sirius, and frankly, Remus knew, that Sirius had needed it.

Ron had been flourishing as well. Away from Harry's shadow, he had gained some confidence, and skill. The Tarly name was well respected here, and Ron found himself the preferred cyvasse partner to Lord Willas, who seemed intrigued by the lad. Ron had been worried for Harry when they had reached, but with the Patroni coming frequently enough, much of the worry had abated.

After the several stags that had come their way, the doe patronus was startling. Remus had thought for a mad moment that Lily was perhaps alive in this world, until the voice of Hermione Granger came forth from the doe's mouth. It was a remarkable piece of magic, especially for someone whose forte wasn't defence, but then Hermione had been top of her year for a reason. Yet, the patronus was odd. Remus had never thought that Hermione had feelings for Harry, beyond that of sisterly affection.

Sirius had seemed quite tickled about the entire thing, speaking with almost paternal pride about Prongs junior, while Ron had looked on horrified. Poor boy. Remus knew that look.

Both the horror and the glee had evaporated soon enough, though, when the patronus spoke. Blood magic, skin-changing. It was terrifying. Hermione asked them to keep a look out. She had wanted to send a message to Harry as well, she told them, but she didn't think anyone was after him yet, and she didn't know whether it would be safe to communicate with him. Sirius though needed to be careful, as already someone had tried to kill him.

Hermione had to stay back. There had been attempts on Snape's life. Snape was king. Remus could scarcely believe it. Sirius had raged when he had learned, but even he admitted Snape was better than Joffrey.

If Joffrey was indeed behind the deed, afraid that any child of his mother with Sirius would threaten him, then Remus's assessment was that with Cersei's death the chances of attack on Sirius's person were low.

Harry, on the other hand, was alone, and had been using magic. If not now, he would be a target. It was imperative that they make their way to him. Remus knew that Harry was in the Riverlands, but where exactly he had no clue. Apparation to an unknown location was dangerous, and taking someone side-along was more dangerous still. Yet, time was of the essence. If they made haste, they could take a ship from Dunstenbury to the Twins this very eve. It would take a few days to get there, but it beat taking the Kingsroad, anyhow.

He was explaining the logistics of the proposed rescue when Sirius interrupted. "You seem to have forgotten you were a Maurauder, Mooney." Sirius had a familiar gleam in his eye, one that Remus was glad to see. "You seem to be thinking like a muggle. We know where we need to go. We all have maps. Why, I think we all can fly."


It was a dream come true for Samwell Tarly, that was certain. Old Town was full of books and people who liked books. Jon felt himself an outsider, bored with their innumerable discussions and seminars. Marwyn the mage had been fascinated by their recounting of events, and had promised all the help he could give. There was not much help to be had, however, and much of what the Archmaester had told them Jon had already known. Being told that magic brought back the dead wasn't very helpful, nor that fire could kill the wights. Samwell still thought that there was knowledge to be had at the Citadel, and had insisted that they stay back. He was going through the library as if it would go up in smoke next week.

Magic wasn't a subject that many studied at the Citadel it seemed. Only three acolytes and two maesters, besides the Archmaester himself pursued the study with any seriousness. Petyr Lannister and Sam had become fast friends, and both were of like mind to find the answers that they seeked. The other acolyte, Alleras kept asking him about life at the Night's Watch, and seemed to be studying Jon. He thought the acolyte was even making notes. It made Jon very uncomfortable, and he avoided them all when he could. Jon had never felt so alone.

He had tried to see the town instead, but the only other thing that Old Town was known for were the whorehouses. Once, Jon would have found it strange to find so many of them in a town which hosted a large order of celibates, but being in the Night's Watch had taught him things, and it surprised him no longer.

There was no place for him to go here. He hated the inns, for all of them were in someway attached to a whorehouse, and as a bastard, the entire sordid business hurt.

They would be going to King's Landing next, to convince the King to send some support, and Jon so wanted to leave. There was a new King, the maesters had informed them, this one with Targaryen blood, who did not disdain magic as the Lannisters did. Jon hoped therefore, that he would listen where Joffrey had not. It was strange how much things had changed since he joined the Nights Watch. Robert was King then, and his lord father the hand. When Jon had left the Nights Watch for Old Town, Joffrey sat the Iron Throne, and now this Targaryen. Severus Targaryen. That's all he knew of the new King. The maesters didn't have much to tell him, except he was half-brother to the Viper of Dorne, and he wasn't well-liked here. Anyone's better than Joffrey, Jon thought, though he was mindful of not saying it aloud. The maesters said they didn't care for politics, but it was clear that they disliked Targaryens.

The door of his cell opened with Samwell entering with an armload of scrolls. Jon had never seen him happier. If only Randyll Tarly had sent his son south instead of the north…

"Any luck, Sam?" Jon asked once again.

"Oh yes," Sam exulted. "There's just sooo much on the Higher Mysteries. Discussions on where magic comes from, about like and like, like water and air, and unlike and unlike, like fire and ice. There's plenty on skinchanging, greenseeing, there's even a diagram of a wight's anatomy and how it differs from a man."

Jon shook his head in exasperation. How would this help, he thought to himself. Did it tell them how their foe could be vanquished?

"Yes, Sam, so you said to me earlier as well. Does it say how we can kill them, beyond, using fire and dragonglass?"

Sam's smile shrank. "Not yet. But studying this will help. If we know the vulnerabilities of the wights, for example, we may be able to devise a weapon…"

Jon sighed. That would take so much time. Time that they didn't have, and they had to go to King's Landing, too. Sensing Jon's thoughts, Sam said gently, "I know you are uncomfortable here, Jon, but this needs be done, and you know it. Mayhaps you can go to King's Landing, while I research what I can? It would save time…"

Jon smiled for the first time since coming to Old Town, and he didn't need convincing to agree. "I will send the ravens right away. There's a ship sailing for King's landing the next tide…"