Sansa VI
Even after Robb's death, Sansa had never imagined herself as the lady of a great Northern keep. Her childish dreams had involved marrying a great lord of the South, and later on, a golden prince. As a hostage and Tyrion Lannister's wife, there had been no point in imagining such things. And Ramsay Bolton had never allowed her to play the role, in truth. Fat Walda Bolton had been the lady of the keep until Sansa's loathsome second husband had murdered her, and Sansa herself had been his trophy and his toy, a pretty thing to show off or hurt as it pleased him.
And wasn't that ironic? Now that Jon had taken up the crown of the Northmen, and Bran had returned home, it was Sansa Stark, the Princess of Winter, running the kingdom from her family's ancestral seat!
Sansa was determined to do it well, though she felt her deficiencies keenly. She'd never been good at sums, and now it was vital to calculate food rations correctly, for the smallfolk and for the army at the Wall. She hadn't paid enough attention to the history of the northern houses, with all their feuds and intermarriages; it would be horrifically easy to offend one of the lords! Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had trained her to be a beautiful queen with ladylike accomplishments, not the regent of a North at war, its wildling allies, and the legendary knights of the Vale!
Even her favorite tasks felt unimportant and useless in the grand scheme. She'd always been a deft hand with the embroidery needle, but Winterfell's Free Folk and refugee population had little need for finery; they needed sturdy wool, good linen, and plenty of furs and leather. Though Sansa was skilled enough at sewing practical garments, that required more time than she had. Lately, her sewing group of ladies had taken over that duty.
Between blizzards, more and more people arrived to fill up the winter town outside the walls. The wildlings had set up camp in the northern quarter and kept mostly to themselves, but the smallfolk of the North did not mix with them or even trust them. Nearly every time Sansa and her Wintersguards visited the town, they'd had to interrupt a brawl. Only Jon could unite the two peoples (though Ser Davos had tried), and he was unable to help from his current post.
Regency was a heavy mantle. In her most selfish moments, Sansa wished Jon would return already, and take the responsibility back from her. To add to her frustration, Sansa often saw Bran, motionless in the godswood or the crypts for hours at a time, while she ran to and fro, exhausted and always busy. The petulant child inside of her whined that it just wasn't fair.
The nights brought little comfort. Without Jon, his burgeoning musical skill, or his direwolf to chase away her nightmares, the Lord's Chamber loomed large and sinister in the late hours, and all too often Sansa woke up screaming. So often had her Wintersguards barged in, looking for a threat, that the princess was no longer embarrassed to be seen in her lace-trimmed nightrail. Every single guard had gotten an eyeful or three, though the Northmen were too deferential to say anything, and Geisa the spearwife didn't care.
Sansa's only escape came in the scarce moments of peace her duties allowed. She'd been forced to ask the kennelmaster to put down Ramsay's feral bitches, now that a long winter was upon Winterfell. There was simply no reason to waste precious food on dogs that might never submit to humans again. However, her daily warging practice with Kyra had spared her that fate. The once-vicious hunting dog had become as docile as a puppy, and often followed Sansa around the castle as she went about her business.
Jon and Bran had told Sansa that dogs were the easiest to control, since they'd been bred to do humans' bidding, and they'd been right. Slipping into Kyra's skin felt as comfortable as sinking into a hot bath, and after moons of practice, just as easy. When the endless duties and unhappy memories overwhelmed the princess, she would take Kyra for a run around the keep or the winter town, leaving Sansa's body behind in Jon's solar, or on her bed.
There was an unforeseen—but welcome—benefit to doing this. As Kyra, Sansa had access to information that would never have reached the Princess Regent otherwise. When a Barrowton merchant had stormed up to the castle, demanding justice for some stolen bolts of linen, Kyra's nose had followed the thief's trail directly to the man's business partner, rather than the wildlings they'd accused. She'd discovered that Bran's trick on Littlefinger was common knowledge, albeit inaccurate and full of exaggeration, and that Jon was now known as Jon the Undying or Jon the Gods-Chosen among the smallfolk. She'd heard secrets, benign and dangerous, and prevented two rapes.
Unlike her brother and cousin, no one knew Sansa was a warg. She meant to keep it that way. The North had no equivalent to Varys the Spider to ferret out plots against the royal family, but with Sansa's warging, they would not need one.
Every moment Sansa wasn't riding with Kyra, time dragged by, making the weeks since Jon's departure felt like years. Ser Davos was a willing Hand, plain-spoken and full of good counsel, and at times, a much-needed neutral intermediary. However, he knew even less about the North and its people than Sansa herself. That was why, when two Manderly men-at-arms came to her with three strangers in gray robes and chains, she nearly wept at the sight of them all.
"Thank the gods," Sansa whispered, leaning back into the Stark of Winterfell's chair. "Welcome to Winterfell, maesters!"
The men bowed, chain links clanking slightly. Ser Davos, sitting on Sansa's right, also sighed in relief.
"Thank you, your grace," replied their leader. He was quite old and quite hairless, except for a very bushy pair of eyebrows. His blue eyes gleamed with intelligence. "My name is Morn; I am bound for Castle Black. Andros will come as well, and take over for me when the inevitable occurs." He paused, and pointed out his other companion.
"Maester Rodwyle, on the other hand, would be pleased to serve the Starks of Winterfell."
Rodwyle bowed. He was possibly the youngest maester Sansa had ever seen, with a long face half-hidden by a thick, black beard. She supposed he'd grown it to appear more mature, though it was not long enough to hide his impressive collection of chain links.
"Where were you born, Maester Rodwyle?" Sansa asked curiously. The man certainly had the look of the North about him!
Rodwyle smiled. "Torrhen's Square, your grace. When the Archmaesters asked for volunteers to come North and serve Winterfell, I could not resist the call."
"The war has left Oldtown in a sticky situation, Princess," Andros spoke up, and Sansa detected a hint of the Vale in his speech. "The Grand Maester is dead; none of us recognize that degenerate Qyburn as one of our order, and between Queens Cersei Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen, and Yara Greyjoy, and Kings Euron Greyjoy and Jon Snow, we find ourselves stretched thin and pulled in all directions. Some Archmaesters prefer one ruler, some another."
"I can imagine," Sansa replied politely. She could guess where this was going. "But your noble order was functioning perfectly before the Targaryens unified the Seven Kingdoms, and I expect it will continue to function now that we've separated. That said," she added, "if you've come to take the measure of the new King in the North, I'm afraid he's not here. We received news of an attack on the Wall, and he marched our army north with all haste."
"It is true that the Citadel ran well enough before the Iron Throne," Morn admitted, "though it takes time for the maesters to adjust, with changes such as these. For the nonce, your grace, we come to fulfill our sworn duty. No kingdom may function without proper communication and education of its lords."
"We brought ravens, and some copies of common books," Andros informed Sansa, "since we heard Wintefell had been sacked and burned."
"You heard correctly. Even before the sacking, an assassin set fire to our library as a distraction," Sansa replied. "The few books we've recovered are there already, but the place sorely needs a maester's attention. And I must say, it would be wonderful to have a Citadel-trained adviser once more. My cousin named me regent due to my Stark blood, not my wisdom, and our Hand knows more about sailing and the Stormlands than the North—I mean no offense, Ser Davos," Sansa added quickly.
"I take none, your grace," Davos replied in his matter-of-fact way.
The maesters glanced at each other in confusion.
"Cousin, your grace? We understood your late father's bastard had been chosen to rule the North."
Sansa smiled innocently. "I suppose the Citadel couldn't have known," she said, pretending to think hard. "But I must correct you; the man you know as Jon Snow was born Aemon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen by his second wife, Lyanna Stark." She took a breath, and went on. "At the time of his birth, King Aerys, Prince Rhaegar, and Prince Aegon had all died, leaving my cousin as the true heir to the Iron Throne. That is why Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne guarded him until the end."
Maester Andros' mouth had fallen open. The other two didn't look much better.
"That is only the beginning of Jon's story," Sansa continued, deliberately ignoring their shock. "Please, make yourselves comfortable, have some of our bread and salt, and afterwards I will show you the documents that prove this in our king's solar. In the meantime, I will tell you of my cousin's rise to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the mutiny that freed him, and the enemy he is currently fighting. I'm afraid the tall tales the Citadel ignored are not tales at all..."
Sansa glanced up briefly and saw her guards on duty, Geisa and Young Artos, fighting laughter at the dumbstruck maesters. She gave them a barely noticeable nod, then turned her attention back to her guests.
The maesters were not the only welcome arrivals at Winterfell. A few days later, Morn and Andros had barely left for the Kingsroad when two Widow's Watch Flints begged admittance to Jon's solar, where Sansa, Maester Rodwyle, and Ser Davos were sorting through inventories. They'd brought another group of guests, this one long expected.
"Your grace," bowed the Flint greybeard on the right. "We bring the honorable Tycho Nestoris, emissary of the Iron Bank of Braavos, come to treat with House Stark. His assistant, Noros Vynolis, and these guards, have come as well."
Young Artos Norrey stepped forward, a tower of a man in Wintersguard gray. "You stand in the presence of Princess Sansa of House Stark, Regent of the Kingdom of the North," he said solemnly. "The King's Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, and Maester Rodwyle."
The Braavosi men bowed politely. They looked half-frozen and out of place, dressed in muted reds and purples and blues in a sea of sober brown and gray. They also lacked the warrior's build of most of the men in the Great Hall; it was clear their weapons were parchment, ledgers, and ink, not steel.
Sansa rose gracefully. She had dressed to impress them, because as she always told Jon, a king (or princess regent) must look the part. She wore a new gown of fine wool, pure silver with delicate white embroidery at the hem and sleeves. Her winter rose crown, newly polished, shone brightly above her plaited hair.
"Welcome, Master Nestoris, Master Vynolis. Syra, if you would?"
The serving girl stepped forward with the tray of bread and salt. It was obvious that Nestoris had visited Westeros before; he took a piece of bread without the slightest hesitation, and his assistant followed suit. Once guest right had been given, Nestoris sent his guards away with an elegant hand gesture.
"Thank you, your grace," the banker said, his accent barely noticeable. "We are honored to accept House Stark's invitation."
"We have much to discuss, as I'm sure you know," Sansa replied carefully. "But if you would prefer to rest and reconvene on the morrow, Lord Davos, Maester Rodwyle and I would be happy to wait."
"There will be time for rest later, your grace," Nestoris told them.
"Very well. Please, be seated," Sansa agreed. The solar's chairs were far more cozy than the ones in the Great Hall, and there was food for those who wanted it. If these two meant to work from the moment of their arrival, at least they would do so in relative comfort.
"I understand Jon Snow is at the Wall?" the banker asked, looking down at his stack of letters and documents.
"King Jon is fighting a battle against northern invaders," Ser Davos said, putting a sharp emphasis on the first word.
"Apologies, Lord Seaworth. When I last saw you both, Jon Snow was Lord Commander and you were Hand to Stannis Baratheon. Royalty in the Sunset Lands is too changeable for a humble Braavosi to follow."
"Jon was released from his Night's Watch vows—" Sansa protested.
"Your grace, I meant no disrespect," Nestoris clarified. "How His Grace left the Night's Watch is no concern of ours. From what I saw of your king, he was a clever young man, wise about gold and full of big ideas for the future of the Night's Watch. When we received his letter, the keyholders were quite curious to meet him. Noble houses often go extinct, of course, but a new heir appearing twenty years later is rare...and the keyholder in charge of the Targaryen accounts died seven years ago, and was never replaced."
He sighed. "So we have spent the weeks since your emissary's arrival digging through decades of long-forgotten investments and adding up the gold in your accounts. It was an enormous effort."
"Is there a new account manager?" asked Maester Rodwyle.
"If your king approves, my assistant Noros Vynolis will handle his accounts. I trained him myself, and am proud to recommend him for the position."
"I'm sure Jon will have no objection," Sansa replied, nodding at Vynolis politely. The man picked up his papers.
"In his letter, King Jon inquired if there was a Targaryen account, held separate from the Crown's finances," the new account manager told them. "The account does exist, and predates the Iron Throne's account. How a Valyrian dragonlord persuaded the Bank to open two accounts, I do not know; however, princes have added to it ever since. Prince Viserys attempted to claim both this money and the Iron Throne's, but Prince Rhaegar's will was clear: the gold would go to his widows and his children."
"When the news of Prince Aegon's death reached the Iron Bank, the account was worth—" Vynolis looked at his notes. "—eighty-three thousand, five hundred and eighty-two gold dragons."
Sansa heard Ser Davos gasp, and knew her own face must look as shocked as his. That was a moderate fortune for a southron lord, but in the North? Surely, this would be enough to keep them fed for years of winter!
And Robert Baratheon had spent half that on a single tourney prize! Sansa remembered, shaking her head at the wastefulness of that Hand's Tourney.
"The Targaryens spent lavishly, but they also favored a highly aggressive investment strategy; after all of these years, that account holds two hundred thousand, seven hundred and twenty-four gold dragons. It certainly helps that no one has withdrawn any gold from it for over twenty years."
"Gods be good," muttered Maester Rodwyle, his eyes round as saucers.
Young Artos and Rickard of the Wintersguard stood silent by the door, but Sansa saw their jaws hanging open. It was a good thing the guards were sworn to keep House Stark's secrets! The last thing they needed was for the smallfolk and the lords to stop the careful rationing that was keeping everyone alive, all because Jon was now richer than any King of Winter in the history of the North!
"The king also asked if a bride price was ever paid to his mother, Princess Lyanna of House Stark," Vynolis said, ignoring the shock he'd created. "Prince Rhaegar opened an account three-and-twenty years ago in her name; at the time, he deposited fifty thousand gold dragons for her and any children she might bear."
When Jon and Sansa had found the old letter from the Iron Bank in Lyanna's chest, they had dreamed of twenty, thirty, maybe fifty thousand gold dragons at most. Sansa wanted to laugh hysterically. To think that Jon had owned three times that as a newborn babe!
"Was the investment strategy as aggressive as for the other account?" Ser Davos wondered.
"Indeed," the banker answered. "Princess Lyanna's account now holds ninety-eight thousand, six hundred and seventy-nine gold dragons, with King Jon as the only beneficiary."
"Well," Maester Rodwyle said, looking thunderstruck, "we needn't worry about our folk starving this winter or the next, your grace."
"There is the Stark account as well, of course," said Vynolis, looking almost embarrassed, "but the Starks favor more conservative investments. The account holds only thirty-seven thousand, six hundred and four dragons at the moment."
"I don't doubt it," Sansa replied frankly. "We Starks cannot afford to gamble away our gold, when an extra coin might be the difference between a thousand families freezing to death, and surviving until spring. Still, it couldn't hurt to revise our strategy. Jon has given me the authority to make any purchases or investments I see fit, but I'd rather not take all of his family fortune if I can avoid it."
"I wouldn't even know how to spend so much gold, to be honest," Ser Davos confessed. "Unless we wished to fight the Lannisters, and spent it all on sellsword armies and provisions for them. That's what Stannis meant to do."
Tycho Nestoris, who had kept silent and allowed his assistant to step into his new role, suddenly perked up.
"Is that a possibility?" he asked, one dark eyebrow rising.
"Not in the near future," Sansa replied carefully. "Our army is fighting in the north, not the south."
"Nevertheless, Cersei Lannister is your enemy," Nestoris mused aloud. "And Noho Dimittis informed us that she refuses to pay the debt owed to the Iron Bank, so she is our enemy as well. Stannis Baratheon pledged to pay it," he said, nodding at Ser Davos, "and then he got himself killed, leaving the Iron Bank without its due. I need hardly say that the Bank would be glad of a new king—or queen—on the Iron Throne."
"A new king or queen who would inherit more than six million gold dragons in debt," Sansa said, skeptical.
"Half of that was a loan from House Lannister, not the Iron Bank," Nestoris replied, calm and courteous. "The debt owed to the Bank is less than two million, though there are several Tyroshi cartels that will come calling as well. For a new ruler determined to start his reign properly, arrangements would be made," Nestoris said calmly.
"What of Daenerys Targaryen?" asked Ser Davos. "We've all heard she's coming to Westeros at last, with Dothraki, Unsullied, and all of Cersei Lannister's southron enemies on her side. Could she not be your chosen queen?"
"Perhaps," the banker acknowledged. "But we have our doubts. Do you know how she bought her army of Unsullied?"
"We have little information, truly, more rumors than anything substantial," Maester Rodwyle replied.
"She offered one of her dragons in exchange for the army, against the counsel of her advisers. When the Unsullied were hers, she bid the dragon burn his new owner alive, and return to her."
Every Northman in the room winced. Even now, any mention of men burning alive brought to mind Lord Rickard Stark, and the murder that had birthed a rebellion.
"Even if we assume she doesn't share her father's madness, Daenerys Targaryen shares his disregard for a contract. It could be an Iron Bank emissary burning next, when she decides she would rather ignore the crown's debt. We cannot allow that."
This was terrible news, Sansa thought ruefully. Jon had hoped to meet his aunt one day, and gain her help to fight against the Dead. If she truly burned men alive to escape paying them, what other atrocities might she commit? And the Iron Bank might try to push Jon into a war for the Iron Throne, something no oneneeded!
"I see why you would prefer King Jon on the Iron Throne," Ser Davos spoke at last. He'd been the least affected by the memory of Rickard Stark. "But he doesn't want it, and he won't fight for it unless there is no other way."
"The Targaryens married within their family, did they not?" Vynolis spoke up. "If King Jon should wed his aunt, and perhaps curb her more...destructive tendencies..."
"You would ask King Jon to wed a woman who burns men alive when they displease her?" Maester Rodwyle protested. "Mayhaps you forget, Honorable Noros Vynolis, that our king is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and his claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than hers. We don't know how she will act when she receives these news—she may well attempt to kill him."
The two Braavosi looked at each other.
"We understood kinslaying was a severe offense against the gods in the Sunset Lands," Tycho Nestoris said, frowning. "But it is true that House Targaryen created its own rules while it was in power."
"It is a grave offense," Ser Davos told them, subdued. "But it does happen; and kings and queens consider their hands clean as long as another does the dirty work," he finished, probably thinking of Stannis and the Red Woman. Sansa had heard much about their murder of Renly from Brienne.
"My lords, we are speaking of things that may never happen," Sansa interrupted. "Now that we know how much gold Jon's family left him, we can return to the most urgent business at hand."
"Agreed, your grace," Rodwyle told her with a shallow bow.
"Very well, your grace," Tycho Nestoris agreed politely. Sansa knew they hadn't heard the last of the Bank's plans for the Iron Throne, but that discussion could wait until Jon returned.
"Honorable keyholders, have you ever heard of the glass gardens of Winterfell?"
Negotiating with the Iron Bank was hard work, and slow. Jon had inherited enough gold that there was no need to borrow more, but there were purchases to be made with it, and the Bank would act as the intermediary. At the top of Jon's list was the repair of Winterfell's glass gardens, so food could be grown there as long as the winter lasted. He'd also suggested constructing similar gardens in the other keeps around the North, though without the convenient hot springs underneath, they would need an alternate source of heat. Jon's rough sketches contained large fire pits, bread ovens, and even forges to create the necessary heat. That meant the Braavosi would need to hire craftsmen of all sorts, and pay them a premium for coming to the North in winter.
"Myrish glass has the highest quality," said Tycho Nestoris, glancing up at the broken roof of the Winterfell glass gardens.
"We don't need the highest quality glass," Maester Rodwyle replied. "As long as enough light passes through to keep our crops alive, a slight yellow tint or a few bubbles will not bother us in the slightest."
"In that case, I would recommend Tyroshi glassblowers. Their glass is quite good, but it cannot compare to Myrish glass, or even Volantene glass, so they cannot charge the same price," said Vynolis.
"Perfect," Sansa agreed, "Even better if we can hire masters with apprentices. Some might even be inclined to stay in the North."
They worked out a budget, as well as a commission for the Iron Bank. On and on they went, detailing each purchase that must be made, such as seeds from the Reach and Dorne, and the sales of Northern goods, such as ironwood.
That evening, as Sansa walked to supper with her head full of pipe repairs and winter vegetables, Bran and his two guards stopped her and Kyra.
"Bran? What is it?"
He looked unsure.
"Have you seen something?" Sansa prompted.
"Yes," he said at last, "but I'm not sure what it is. I've seen at least a dozen Stark kings and lords taking their sons down into the crypts and speaking of the King's Protection."
"Protection down in the crypts?" his sister replied, wanting clarification.
"Yes," Bran said again. "I'm having trouble following them all the way down, but I think they go through the collapsed tunnels."
"Well, if there's a protection down there, I don't know how we can reach it, Bran," Sansa told him, still a bit skeptical. What could possibly be down there, buried with the dead under centuries-old rubble?
"I'll keep trying," Bran answered, "but I really think we should clear out the rubble. We may need it, especially if Jon falls."
"Don't say that!" Sansa ordered, sounding harsh to her own ears. Bran flinched.
"Don't even think it, Bran," she added, softer. "He won't fall. He promised."
She did her best to ignore her guards' pitying looks.
"Please, Sansa," Bran said, looking up at her with those Tully eyes. "This is really important. Trust me."
Sansa groaned inwardly, and added another item to her list of costly repairs.
"Very well," she told her brother. "I'll have men hired to clear the tunnels."
"Thank you," Bran replied, smiling. Then his stomach rumbled, ruining the moment. The siblings laughed, and resumed their journey to the Great Hall together.
They sat at the high table with Ser Davos, Maester Rodwyle, and the bankers tonight, and none of them were feeling talkative after a day full of talk. Luckily, one of the wildlings Jon had brought had a flute, and was playing a merry tune from his seat below. One of Sansa's feet tapped along to the beat, invisible beneath her voluminous skirts and the heavy table. All she needed to be truly merry was for Jon and Arya to appear, safe and sound.
She raised her cup to her lips, about to taste the mulled wine, when a blur of something furry slammed into her arm, spilling the drink over the table and poor Ser Davos, who sat on her left.
"Kyra, what in the Seven Hells?" Sansa scolded, but the dog paid no heed. It ran to the end of the hall, growling fiercely at the serving wench that had brought the drinks to the high table.
Immediately, the six Wintersguards' hands went to their weapons of choice, and they moved to surround the woman. When another serving girl ran into the hall, shouting that Jarel the food-taster was dead, Sansa was not even surprised, though a hint of fear pooled deep in her belly.
Poison, she thought to herself. Someone tried to poison me.
"No," the serving wench shouted, looking frantically from dog to guards and back. "Your grace, I've done nothing wrong!"
Sansa begged to differ. Through Kyra's excellent nose, she detected the stench of guilt and deception. Looking closer, Sansa noticed the wench wore at least four layers beneath her roughspun dress, marking her as a southron unaccustomed to the cold.
"Who hired you, wench?" growled Rickard Ashwood of the Wintersguard. "Speak, and we may grant you a merciful death."
"I know nothing!" she insisted, looking wildly from one face to the next. "It wasn't me, I swear it by the old gods and the new!"
"She sounds like a southron," Beren Waterman told Sansa, who agreed. Whoever had sent the wench had not taken the trouble to disguise her Fleabottom accent, which ruled out Varys and Littlefinger, if the weasel still lived.
"No," the assassin protested. "I'm from White Harbor, your grace!"
"You lie!" Wyman Manderly boomed, outraged. "No White Harbor wench would dare poison a Stark of Winterfell!"
"You were the last to handle a cup of poisoned wine," Sansa spoke, keeping her tone even and serious, as Father and Jon did when dispensing justice. "The wine-tester is dead, which rules him out, and if you're from the North, I'm a Martell," she finished in disgust.
"Lock her up. She's to be questioned, then executed," Sansa ordered.
Geisa and Artos obeyed at once, dragging the struggling woman out as the people in the hall pelted her with food and hollered at her. Shaken, Sansa looked back at the high table. Another servant had cleared the poisoned wine, and Bran and the Braavosi remained in their seats, though they'd watched with interest.
"Your old friend Cersei Lannister?" Ser Davos murmured in Sansa's ear.
She nodded tightly. There was no one else with the motive and the means, no one so clumsy and desperate to see her dead.
"We'll have to do something about her," Ser Davos pondered aloud, "but not until Jon returns."
"Yes, not until Jon returns," Sansa repeated, feeling lonely and older than her years. "But if we're very lucky, Daenerys Targaryen will reach King's Landing soon, and give her what she deserves."
"I don't know that anyone deserves to be burned alive," Rickard said, shuddering. "But the Lannister woman comes close."
"Who said anything about burning?" Sansa said wryly. "After flying so far, the dragons might need a good meal, and Cersei is richer meat than most."
Her guards laughed. Perhaps her black humor was inappropriate for a princess, but after surviving an attempt on her life, Sansa did not care. It was better to laugh than to cry in front of her people, surely?
She took her seat once more, and Bran squeezed her hand from his place on her right. Kyra, having performed her duty to her mistress, lay at her feet, gnawing at a juicy bone.
Such was the life of the regent of the North.
Robert – an Interlude
The Lord of the Vale had taken to holding court in Lady Waynwood's solar, which was warm and comfortable. The room was a bit crowded when his knights entered, but that couldn't be helped. It was there that he first saw the man who had betrayed him—the man who had murdered his mother.
He entered, looking small and pitiful. One of his arms was missing, and his clothes were cheap and threadbare. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow. Robert had never imagined his mother's husband could look so woebegone, and rejoiced inwardly.
"Uncle Petyr," he greeted, nearly choking on the polite words. "You've returned to the Vale at last."
"After a terrible ordeal, I assure you," Littlefinger answered hoarsely, "but it does my heart good to see you well, Lord Robert. You've grown."
He'd never treated Robert with so much respect, but then, the creature had had him under his thumb as well as the entire Vale. Now, shrunken and stinking and ill-looking, he seemed to cower beneath the eyes of the Lords Declarant.
Word of his treachery had spread throughout the Vale; Robert had ensured it. Littlefinger would find out soon enough how quickly his bought friends deserted him, but there was time enough for that.
"Imagine my surprise, Uncle," Robert said conversationally, "when I received a raven from my cousin Sansa, informing me that you'd plotted to kill the King in the North, ourally, and admitted to pushing my mother out of the Moon Door, after preying on her until she killed my father."
What little color remained on Littlefinger's face deserted it. It was clear he'd not expected his puppet to turn on him.
"I assure you," Robert told him coldly, "were the Eyrie not shut for the winter, I would drag you up there and make you fly like the sad excuse for a mockingbird you are. Unfortunately, we can't go up there until the winter passes, so we'll have to think of another execution method. I have ideas, as do my loyal knights."
"My lord," Littlefinger said weakly, "it's all a misunderstan—"
Robert stood up. "It is not a misunderstanding!" he shouted, losing his—admittedly limited—patience. "That pathetic maester confessed he was poisoning me under your orders, and I know everything. I know how my mother and father died. I know what you did to Sansa. I know what you did to my uncle Stark. I know you've been blackmailing everyone, and accumulating wealth and grain that should never have been yours."
Petyr Baelish interrupted, not by pleading or shouting, but by coughing. A violent fit made his body shake, and when he removed his hand from his face, Robert saw blood on his fingers.
"Oh, you're ill," Robert said. "Perhaps that will save us the trouble of an execution."
Lady Anya looked a bit shocked at his callousness, but Robert didn't care. This piece of filth did not deserve his compassion.
Lord Nestor seemed to agree.
"Here's what we're going to do, Lord Baelish," Robert informed him. "We're going to lock you up, in a place only the loyal people in this room know about. You're going to tell us every last secret you have, until we know how to return every ward and find every sack of flour you've squirreled away. And then, when you've outlived your usefulness, you will die."
Baelish looked at him in horror. A trickle of blood still remained on his chin.
"Get him out of my sight."
Thanks for reading, everyone! I really appreciate your comments.
This chapter was mostly much-needed housekeeping, but it's a short break in between the more exciting stuff. I just needed to establish a few things, like a path to surviving independently for the North, the beginning of the crypts mystery, the end of Littlefinger, the Iron Bank situation (obviously I'm not following the show there. Why would the Iron Bank give Cersei money to hire the Golden Company, when she's refusing to pay them in the books?)
For the next few chapters, we'll visit each of the battlegrounds, from Riverrun to the Wall and back down to Oldtown, so stay tuned for that.
Also, to the anon who said Dany wasn't fireproof: that's why her hair was burned when she got off Drogon. And I know she's a great conqueror and not so great at actually ruling, so she's surrounding herself with people who can help, like Doran and Tyrion. Even then, her mistakes could come back and bite her, as you see above. The Iron Bank already mistrusts her, and if rumors spread of all the cruel things she did—crucifying people, burning all the khals, etc...who's going to want her for a queen? Admittedly, Cersei is just as bad, but the devil you know and all that.