Late March- early April, 305 AC

Queen Sansa Stark, 305 AC

By ohnoitsmyra

"You ought to have stayed in the Aegonfort where you belong," Brynden Tully said bluntly. Her great-uncle paced the length of her solar, his face thunderous with fury. "The first rule of war is to never, ever give the enemy his wish. And yet you, in all the wisdom of your eighteen years, saw fit to approve your sister's wild plan rather than dissuade her from such folly."

"Folly?" Sansa flared. By the hearth Buttons hissed and fluffed his ginger fur, sharing her displeasure. "What, did I only dream the sight of Ser Lyn with a sword through the eyeslit of his helm? Or must you see the corpse yourself before you admit that Arya's plan succeeded?"

"Success does not excuse stupidity," her great-uncle retorted. "The risk was too great, and needless secrecy made it greater. A thousand things might have gone wrong. Had Ser Lyn hired a dozen more sellswords, or even a single archer or crossbowman... he died and you lived thanks to the grace of the gods, not your sister's imprudent, ill-considered plotting. And as for Brienne—"

"Your opinion is noted, ser." Sansa was not sure whether she wanted to weep or scream, but as neither would suit, she chose cold courtesy instead. "How kind of you to remind me that I meant to visit the sickroom. I shall return anon."

Brynden Blackfish bowed with a scowl almost as dark as the dusk falling outside the windows. How could the sun be setting so soon? It seemed like a few mere minutes since the attack, not the long hours which had passed before she granted her great-uncle's request for a privy word.

It was a good plan, Sansa told herself as Ser Daemon Sand escorted her through the Aegonfort. Lyn Corbray was a nightmare lurking in the dark, a wraith who haunted her night and day. Now he would trouble her no longer, though she could not say the same for her other cares. Sansa's days were as long as they were busy, filled with demands for her attention which came from all directions. Small wonder she had forgotten the reward she owed to faithful, clever Bel. She could only pray she would not forget anything else important, not now that the great weight of her terror of Lyn Corbray had been lifted from her.

As she drew near the sickroom, Sansa could almost hear the sounds of the attack echoing in her ears. The flap of a cloak, the grunt Arya made as she slew a sellsword, the clash of steel as Brienne dueled Ser Lyn Corbray. The memory flashed before her eyes; Ser Lyn, trying to sweep Brienne's legs out from under her with a kick; Brienne, twisting away just in time. Her knee made a terrible popping noise, but whatever hurt she had suffered, Brienne had not seemed to feel it. Bold with battle fever, she flung herself at Ser Lyn. Metal rang as two suits of plate clashed together; there was a hard thud when they hit the ground, and a soft thump when Lady Forlorn went flying to land in the mud and slush.

Ser Lyn groped for his dagger, but it was too late. In a heartbeat Brienne straddled him; in another heartbeat, her sword plunged down. Blood sprayed, bone cracked, and it was over. An awful sight, but not so awful as the sight of Brienne of Tarth when she tried to stand, only to crumple with a yelp of pain, clutching at her knee. Unable to stand or ride, she had returned to the Aegonfort in a litter, to be tended by Maester Perceval.

Maester Perceval was still with her when Sansa reached the sickroom. Both he and Ser Deziel Dalt rose to their feet, greeting her with a bow and brief words of welcome. Brienne did not. She lay abed, sleeping flat on her back, her face pale.

"How is she?" Sansa asked softly as she sat beside the bed, taking the chair which Deziel had vacated.

"As comfortable as I could make her, Your Grace," Maester Perceval said. "I only gave her a little milk of the poppy, so Lady Brienne should wake soon."

"How badly was she injured?"

Her heart sank when both Deziel and Maester Perceval winced.

"With time and a brace, Lady Brienne shall walk again," the maester said heavily. "But her knee shall never be the same. At best it will be unstable, apt to locking up or buckling without warning. At worst, she will suffer a permanent limp and require a cane. Either way—"

"I can still fight." Brienne's voice was a quiet slur as her eyes fluttered open, their sky blue depths bright with tears. "I can, my lady, forgive me—"

"There is nothing to forgive," Sansa said firmly, her stomach like lead. "They will sing songs of how bravely you fought. How many warrior maids have slain a knight of the Kingsguard, or claimed a legendary blade like Lady Forlorn?"

"Lady Forlorn?" Brienne asked, confused.

"Is yours, my lady," Deziel said. "Once I clean off the mud." He gave a wry smile. "No doubt Lord Corbray will pitch a fit. I look forward to laughing at the ravens he will send complaining of this outrage. Perhaps I shall send him a drawing of the new pommel, once I have designed one to match your sigil and your armor."

"My lady should not wear armor," the maester said firmly. "Even when the swelling goes down, carrying such weight will strain the knee further, and as the damage grows, the knee will give out more often. A second injury would be all but certain, one more likely to fester and require amputation."

Sansa stared at the maester, horrified. Gods, what have I done? She trusted Brienne with her life; why had she not warned her of Arya's plan? If Brienne had known they were setting a trap, if she had not been taken by surprise...

"Let Lord Corbray have his brother's sword back," Brienne said bitterly. "What good is a blade that I cannot wield?"

"You will wield it," Sansa said. She felt queerly calm, even as her heart raced. "Maester Perceval, might you explain the nature of this injury?"

The maester sighed, then fetched a ponderous tome from the table. Once it was carefully set on the bed between Brienne and Sansa, he opened it to a marked page. One side showed an elaborate illustration of the bones of the leg; the other showed the muscles.

"Most men know that the leg relies upon both bone and muscle to function. But it was the archmaesters of the Citadel who delved deeper into the mysteries of the human body. Bone and muscle are not enough."

The maester pointed.

"Here you can see that the bones must be joined to each other, and to the muscles which they use. The stiff white ropes of flesh which join bone to bone are called tendons, whilst the supple yellow ropes which join bone to muscle are called ligaments. For instance, there are four ligaments in the knee which join the thighbone to the shinbone. Lady Brienne has torn at least one of them, perhaps two. I am sorry, Your Grace, but I fear such an injury does not heal."

Sansa furrowed her brow. "Are you sure that is the injury Lady Brienne suffered? How can you tell?"

"I examined the knee both by sight and touch," Maester Perceval said, patient as ever. "And I tested the range of motion by carefully attempting to bend and straighten the knee."

Despite her terror, Sansa pressed further. "But you might be mistaken?"

Deziel gave Sansa a pregnant look, then stiffened.

"Her Grace is right," he said smoothly. "You said yourself that the test is not as reliable if the limbs are not relaxed. My lady was tense as a lance, as I recall, thanks to the severity of the pain. And it could not have helped matters that the swelling was so pronounced already."

Maester Perceval hesitated, then made a sympathetic noise. "It is possible," he conceded. "Though not likely. But all men err, even maesters, loathe though some may be to admit it."

The moment the maester was gone, Deziel turned on her.

"Olyvar said you healed his arm," he breathed, his voice low. "Could you- could you heal her knee?"

"Maybe?" Sansa shifted uneasily. "I beg your pardons, if you will excuse me for a moment."

Fortunately, there was a chamberpot hidden behind a carved screen. Unfortunately, her skirts did not fully muffle the sound of using it. Sansa could feel herself blush as she returned to her friends, grateful that they pretended they had not heard.

Deziel looked away as Sansa gently drew back the covers. Brienne's knee was misshapen and grotesque, so red and swollen that Sansa almost feared to touch it. The skin felt hot beneath her palm; at the slightest hint of pressure, Brienne bit back a whimper.

Weary as she was, it took longer than she would like for Sansa to clearly recall the songs she had once learnt upon the Isle of Faces. It took even longer to use them once she had sung Brienne to sleep. Shallow knife cuts, a crushed forearm, a pair of broken fingers... those were simple. A knee was not. Sansa's voice felt hoarse by the time she could even feel the ligament, let alone nudge the broken ends toward each other. They wanted to scar, not knit back together, but Sansa bore down. She sang, sang until her head spun, until her eyes watered, until—

She woke to the taste of lemon wine.

"You fainted," Deziel said, his dark eyes warm with concern. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Sansa rasped. "Water?"

She drank deep, drank until the cup was dry. When Deziel refilled it, she drank again, explaining what she could between sips. Deziel listened in silence, looking not at her but at his betrothed, who lay motionless upon the bed.

Sansa leaned heavily upon Ser Daemon Sand's arm as he escorted her back to her rooms. He tried to cheer her with dry jests at the expense of Ser Loras Tyrell, but her head was too muddled to appreciate his wit. Thank the gods she had already decided not to host anyone for dinner. After sending the Blackfish on his way, she could not tolerate any more company save that of her sister. Once Sansa had apprised Arya of Brienne's condition, they ate in silence. Sansa ravenously devoured far more than her fair share of the modest repast sent up by the cook, drawing a curious stare.

"Healing is exhausting," Sansa said defensively. Granted, that was not the only reason for her appetite, but it was the only one Arya needed to know. She refused to think about the other reason, about the moonbloods and headaches which had not troubled her since she left the Feathered Kiss. Not now, not yet.

Sansa felt exhausted when her maid roused her before dawn. Her breasts ached as Gilly helped her change into a clean shift and a simple gown, murmuring all the while in northron. Sansa replied in the same tongue, determined to master it as Arya had.

The bells were tolling six as Sansa lit candles to the Crone. The pavilion outside the Aegonfort which served as a sept was filled with ladies, some bright-eyed, some yawning, all eager to win their queen's favor. Few remained in the sept when she rose to depart, save a few Dornish ladies in black who stayed to make offerings of river water to the Mother and the Stranger in honor of their dead.

Mercifully, Sansa was allowed to break her fast alone. Though first she had to wait, expectant and hungry, wishing Shirei would hurry up and return from the kitchens. In the meantime, Sansa flung open a window. A cold breeze caressed her, scented by the smoke of the kitchen fires. The window faced north; for a moment her heart leapt as she thought of Winterfell, of seeing her brothers once more. But that journey could not begin just yet, not until Olyvar returned and finished setting his kingdom to rights as best he could.

Once her belly was full and her bladder empty, it was time for Sansa to bathe and dress, though she would rather have curled up in her soft, inviting bed with Buttons. Gilly, Shirei, and Liane gossiped as they fetched hot water, scrubbed her skin and washed her hair, and set out the clothes and jewels she meant to wear. Sansa would miss their fond smiles and slightly improper familiarity when highborn ladies-in-waiting attended her in their place.

Her heart twinged when Jeyne Poole arrived just as Gilly helped her into her thin silk hose. When they first reunited upon the kingsroad, they had wept and embraced like the truest of friends. They were the truest of friends, as they had been ever since they were small. And yet... five years was so very long. It was not fair that Arya and Merissa of Sherrer knew Jeyne better than she did, that they were in all the stories Jeyne told.

Still, when it came time to choose a replacement for poor Jynessa Blackmont, there was no other choice. Jeyne Poole had plenty of experience running Princess Arya's household; it was only right and proper that she be elevated to running that of Queen Sansa, with the faithful Meri always by her side.

As Gilly laced her into a bodice of violet damask, Jeyne reviewed matters which required the queen's attention. The cooks and the bakers were quarreling again; the kitchens had been built to serve small royal hunting parties, not an entire royal court. The carpenters and stonemasons were desirous of heartier fare to sustain them as they labored in the cold to expand the Aegonfort; there was an outbreak of winter fever amongst the stableboys, and many were too ill to work.

There was much and more, too much for Sansa to hear at present. Once her crown of sunstones and moonstones rested atop her hair, it was time for the small council meeting. Olyvar had left them in her charge whilst he was away; she must not be tardy. When she left, Holdfast trotted at her heels, begging scritches from Dacey Mormont and Ser Elyas Thorne. They steadfastly ignored the hound, as they always did when it was their turn to guard the queen.
Lord Willas Tyrell did not share their scruples. As soon the queen entered the small council chamber, the master of laws paid his respects first to Sansa, then to Holdfast. The dog's tail wagged furiously as Willas ruffled his ears and Princess Rhaenys cooed over him, drawing a smile from Ser Gulian Qorgyle as the master of coin set down his ledgers. Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the Commander of the City Watch, was not so moved. Sansa did not think she had ever seen Ser Jacelyn without his usual expression of grim resolve which he wore every time he came to report to the small council.

"Will Princess Elia be attending council today?" Sansa asked Rhaenys. Her goodmother came when she could, glad to offer her advice, but her health was delicate, especially in winter. The chill strained her weak lungs and made her legs ache; sometimes she remained abed all day.

"My lady mother should join us presently," Rhaenys told her. "Lady Aliandra brought word shortly before Your Grace arrived." Both her goodsister and Willas smelled of soap and perfume, with another scent hiding underneath. The tips of Sansa's ears turned pink when she recognized the faint musk, her tummy flipping as she recalled sweet hours spent with her own lord husband.

To distract herself, Sansa eyed the empty chairs that sat around the table. Olyvar had yet to appoint a King's Hand, nor a master of ships or a master of whisperers. His new Grand Maester should soon be sent from the Citadel, once they managed to hold a Conclave to choose a replacement for Grand Maester Gerold. Most of the archmaesters had been killed during Euron Greyjoy's attack on Oldtown; their places had to be filled before the Conclave could meet.

The creek of wooden and iron wheels announced Princess Elia's coming, though Sansa's keen ears heard them long before anyone else took notice. Elia Uller was surprisingly gentle as she pushed her aunt's rolling chair into the room, setting it at the only place at the table which had no chair. She was just as careful as she poured wine into a monstrously large yellow-white cup which sat atop a golden stem. Sansa repressed a shudder; she was still not accustomed to seeing her goodmother drink from the Mountain's skull.

"Good morrow, my lady," Sansa said. "I hope the cold does not trouble you too badly today."

Princess Elia smiled. "A little, but better, now that I am with Your Grace. I had always heard Winterfell was warm as a summer day, but I did not know that you Starks could bestow your tolerance for the cold upon those in your presence."

"Don't be silly," Ser Gulian chuckled. "It is youth and vigor that makes the blood run hot, that's all. I thought I was like to freeze to death when we were marching down the kingsroad, but King Aegon barely noticed the cold."

"Just so," Sansa agreed, feeling uneasy.

She knew when the cold and bitter winds had last troubled her. It was at Dragonstone, before she prayed to the weirwood sapling she had planted. Olyvar had complained frequently of the cold when they landed in Westeros, yet never once since his visit to the Isle of Faces. And Ser Perwyn Truefaith said Arya's scorn of heavy layers of fur and wool was no recent habit, but had begun the day they left Winterfell... but Sansa had neither time nor inclination to think on that. With all assembled, it was time for the meeting to begin.

To the displeasure of everyone, there was still no word of Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Nor had the king's raven returned from Casterly Rock. However the castellan Ser Willem Lannister and his twin brother Ser Martyn meant to reply to King Aegon's offer, their answer must remain a mystery for yet another day.

As for King's Landing, it remained in a state of general disorder. Between Ser Jacelyn's goldcloaks and the knights of the Golden Company, the king's peace was being kept, if with some difficulty. With the Lord Mayor having perished in the blaze of wildfire which had consumed the Red Keep, the patricians were arguing amongst themselves as to the best candidates to proffer to King Aegon, rather than governing the city as they ought.

Thank the gods neither they nor the smallfolk were aware of Wisdom Munciter's survival; they would have torn him limb from limb. Never mind that he was the only pyromancer who yet lived and had the knowledge to supervise the hunt for any caches of wildfire which still lurked beneath the city. Last night a cache had been found beneath a tavern; when night fell, they would be removed in secret.

Lord Willas was expressing his concerns over Septon Jonothor's preaching when Sansa was forced to excuse herself to visit the privy. When finished, she glared out the small privy window, irritated by the dull grey sky. She yearned for sunshine, or a flurry of falling snow, not the bleak sameness which made her want to abandon her council to crawl back in bed.

Sansa wanted to be a good queen, she did, but why was there always so much work to be done? No one sang songs about enduring interminable meetings, or told tales about trying to manage fractious nobles, a skeleton small council, and a household that was only half formed. At least fighting against the Others would be as exciting as it was terrifying, though Sansa was glad that the field of battle belonged to the men, not to her. Women fought another sort of war, and if she was right, she would be called to battle before the year was out...

Almost no one was pleased about King Aegon's plan to go to war. The small council wanted him to stay here, and leave the North to whatever fate the gods had in mind. So did the smallfolk, whose faith in their king's ability to protect them had been fanned to feverish heights by Septon Allard's account of King Aegon's miraculous rescue of Lord Robert Arryn from the Eyrie.

"In the pot shops they are calling him Aegon the Blessed," Rhaenys said, her lip curling with satisfaction.

Willas was almost as pleased when he reported on his work as master of laws. Between the assistance of Maester Gerold and Perros Blackmont, he was finally making progress in reviewing all the edicts set forth by Queen Cersei on behalf of her bastard son. "And the scribes are more efficient of late, thanks to Your Grace's notion of having their wives help them."

"Thank you, my lord." It had been Gilly's notion, in truth; Sansa would have to reward her later.

The news that Lord Baelor Hightower had sent from Oldtown was also welcome. There was no need to fear the ironborn attacking the beleaguered city; they were too busy fighting amongst themselves. The few survivors of Euron Greyjoy's fleet had been set upon as soon as they dropped anchor in the Iron Islands, butchered by ironborn intent on avenging King Victarion and his brother Aeron Damphair, a priest of the Drowned God. Somehow, that battle had spiraled into a thrall revolt; Queen Asha would be hard-pressed to keep her driftwood crown.

Sansa's crown was making her head hurt by the time Princess Elia concluded the meeting with a discussion of the sept which would replace the Great Sept of Baelor. For years she had wanted to build a small sept dedicated to the memory of Gawaen and Jonquil, the babes who had died in place of her own. Princess Elia had even had a famed Braavosi architect draw up plans. Of course, those plans were not nearly grand enough. Once the rubble was cleared from atop Visenya's Hill, new plans must be drawn up, plans for a glorious sept which would honor the Seven as they deserved.

When Sansa escaped the council chamber, she expected to find Arya waiting for her. Instead, she found little Samrik, who informed her that Princess Arya was visiting Lady Brienne. Sansa wished she could have done the same, rather than having to summon a dozen ladies for an afternoon of needlework and polite conversation.

By the time dinner came, Sansa was in a foul temper. She wanted nothing more than a custard pie all to herself, one made with crisp pastry and lots of fresh berries on top. Failing that, she would have settled for rare roast beef, slathered in butter and sharp cheese and served with hot brown oatbread. Alas, Princess Elia and Rhaenys were to dine with her, and Sansa must be solicitous of her goodmother's health. That meant Gilly served them pottage, a fine rich pottage made with saffron and mutton and egg yolks and beans and herbs and the gods only knew what else. At least there was still bread, but it was the sort favored in Dorne, a short round white loaf made from wheat.

As Sansa ate her bread whilst trying to hide her resentment, Arya shared the latest news from the sickroom. The maester judged that Lady Brienne's injury might be less severe that he first thought, but the lady was still in great pain. Milk of the poppy had helped, enough so that Deziel had finally left his betrothed's side to bathe and sleep, but Brienne's spirits were as low as could be.

"I will keep her in my prayers," Rhaenys said, genuinely stricken. "To suffer such a grievous injury... perhaps my Willas might give her some comfort. And I am sure our maester would be glad to consult with Maester Perceval and render what help he may."

This was the side of her goodsister that Sansa liked, the one whose heart was as warm as her conversation. Rhaenys knew as much of poetry and music as Sansa did, though their taste in songs differed. And Rhaenys preferred the sound of her bloodwood qithara to that of Sansa's high harp, though she allowed Sansa had the finer voice.

Sansa was much less fond of the other side of her goodsister. It did not matter that Rhaenys was a scant few years older than Olyvar; one would have thought she was ten years the elder, with how confident she was of the wisdom of her advice. Princess Elia was no help either, being apt to favor her daughter four times out of five.

So it was when Sansa returned from the privy. Awaiting her she found spiced honey biscuits, mulled wine hot from the kitchens, and a debate which raged even hotter.

"Like it or not, King Aegon will be going north," Arya huffed, her arms crossed. "Everything else can wait until the Others are defeated."

"Everything else?" Rhaenys asked, an eyebrow quirked. "My dear sister, I know matters of state are not your concern, but kingship is a heavy burden, one which cannot be so easily set aside."

Princess Elia sighed. "King Aegon ought not abandon his capital, not with the realm in such disarray."

"The realm will be in far worse disarray if the Others breach the Wall," Sansa said, her voice even.

"If." Rhaenys took a sip of wine. "King Robb has never been defeated, not by any man."

The Others are not men. "Even the greatest commander requires adequate troops." Sansa delicately bit her biscuit, then kicked Arya under the table before she could interrupt. "King Aegon will bring him more men and more supplies, not to mention Viserion and her flames."

"Why should King Aegon rush to defend King Robb's subjects?" Rhaenys ignored Arya's look of outrage. "If King Robb knelt, however... why, if the Seven Kingdoms were reunited, as they should be, that would be different."

"Oh, fu—" Arya shut up, with a glare at Sansa for kicking her again. Sometimes Arya's lack of decorum was useful, even welcome, but now was not the time.

"My lady is full of surprises." Unlike her surly sister, Sansa spoke with a voice as honeyed as the biscuits. "I never thought to hear such words from a proud daughter of House Martell. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Aegon the Conqueror himself could not force Dorne to kneel, not even with both his queens and three dragons."

"No," Princess Elia said. "But we did kneel, in the end. After countless Dornishmen had been burned and slain and starved. Mayhaps Torrhen Stark had the right of it when he chose to kneel rather than fight."

"Too true, alas," Rhaenys said, shaking her head.

Arya gave the Dornishwomen a look of scathing disbelief, followed by a string of curses that were thankfully in northron. Sansa feigned scolding her sister in the same tongue, though the effect was almost ruined when she said "of course they don't actually think Dorne should have knelt, but let them have their say," and Gilly had to cover a laugh by pretending to cough.

The battle of wits finished in a draw, as it always would until her lord husband returned. When her guests departed, Sansa was exhausted. She barely remembered to give Gilly a purse of coin before her maids undressed her, then fell into bed with a grateful groan.

Mere minutes seemed to pass between when Sansa closed her eyes and when she opened them. Her morning was a blur, her mind dull and slow. Every duty took undue effort, as though she walked through knee-deep water. When she happened to cross Lord Symond Staunton's path, Sansa refused to grant him a smile. Imprudent as it was for Arya to make such a display in public, he had earned having Nymeria set on him.

Mathis Rowan, on the other hand, warranted as much courtesy as she could muster. The Lord of Goldengrove was well liked for a reason, being as sensible as he was amiable. He accompanied her to the sickroom, and only took his leave after saying a few gallantries to the ladies within.

Arya was in a sulk, either due to frustration that she had not been the one to slay Lyn Corbray or due to guilt over Brienne's injury. While she and Brienne watched nervously, Sansa examined the knee. She found the ligament whole, albeit tender and fragile, as delicate as a whisper. Sansa was pondering whether to leave it be when an itch prickled at her skin, as though a candle flickered at the edge of her senses before bursting into a roaring hearth.

Sansa's skirts rustled as she leapt to her feet. In the blink of an eye she was sweeping down the hallway, Ser Loras Tyrell and his men-at-arms following at her heels. Around a corner they went, through a door and out into the yard. Sansa gazed at the sky, her breath steaming in the air, warm despite her lack of cloak.

Viserion descended with a ragged screech, the nearby banners flapping in the wind of her pale wings. When Olyvar slid out of the saddle, Sansa wanted nothing more than to run to him, to leap into his arms and have him carry her to their chambers. Instead she was forced to settle for an embrace and a kiss, both of which ended much too quickly.

"Oh, my love," her husband murmured. "It has been too long. Are you well?"

"Quite well, my love," Sansa assured him, ignoring the way his eyes had darted to her belly. "Though better now that you are here."

Olyvar gave her a rueful smile. "I am sorry I could not return earlier, though I am sure you kept things well in hand. How fares the realm?"

"Decently enough, though your sister will say otherwise. Rhaenys is not pleased that we mean to go north at all, let alone so soon."

Her husband blinked at her, his brow furrowed. "We? My love, do you jest?"

"Jest?" Cold foreboding trickled down Sansa's spine.

Olyvar glanced at the courtiers nearby, then lowered his voice even further. "Sansa, you know you're not going north with me. You're staying here, to rule in my stead."

"What?" Sansa's voice was strangely flat; she was too stunned for either anger or sorrow.

"Your Grace?"

Sansa looked up at the scrawny boy still chained in the pillion saddle. "Lord Arryn," she called, forcing herself to be merry. "Well met, cousin!"

While Olyvar dealt with the little Lord of the Eyrie, Sansa busied herself with Viserion. The she-dragon was in a foul temper, sick of both the cold and of her aching throat. My scar hurts, she said, her teeth bared. No thanks to you, useless wolfgirl. Viserion's sullen growls sent everyone backing away, and easily covered the soft sound of Sansa's singing.

You smell worse than a privy, Sansa informed the dragon when she paused to take another look at Viserion's throat. The blisters were gone, the scar closed, but she did not like the lingering redness. And I've met rats with better manners.

"What are you doing?" Lord Robert Arryn's eyes were huge in his wan face. Slight and small, he could have passed for ten, not four-and-ten. Olyvar towered over him, as did Deziel and even Arya when they finished crossed the yard.

"Her Grace is busy," Olyvar said, taking the boy by the hand. "Here, my lord. This is your cousin Princess Arya, and my bosom friend Ser Deziel Dalt. Ser Deziel shall take you to the bathhouse, so you may wash away the stench of dragon."

Robert shied away, uncertain. "Couldn't you take me?" he whined. "Please, your Grace? You'll have to wash too."

Olyvar sighed. "Very well, but I must speak to Queen Sansa first. Give us a moment, there's a good lad." With a firm but gentle shove, he pushed the boy toward Arya.

Sansa paid no heed to Olyvar's approach. She could not look at him, not when her heart felt as hollow and cold as her gut. Through her tears she could see wispy visions playing across Viserion's creamy scales; of her brothers, of Winterfell, of wolves gathered beneath the heart tree. It was a relief when Olyvar left her be, turning to Deziel instead. Sansa blocked out the sound of their talking, listening to her breathing and that of the dragon. Until, sharp and strident, her husband's voice broke through—

"Arya did WHAT?"

That night, the feast was as proper as could be. King Aegon was the soul of courtesy as he introduced Lord Robert Arryn to the high lords assembled to meet him, just as Queen Sansa was all that was sweetness and light as she did her best to put her cousin at ease. By the time the roast came, she had been granted permission to call him Sweetrobin. By the sweet, she had heard the entire tale of how Sweetrobin had been brought down the Giant's Lance by King Aegon and a wildling inexplicably named Ser Timett son of Timett.

No doubt Olyvar would explain that later, but not yet. Rather than returning to their chambers when the meal was done, Sansa excused herself. Her husband and her cousin's safe arrival was a blessing; she must thank the old gods, just as she would thank the new gods upon the morrow.

The weirwood was hale and healthy, a slim white sapling that rose almost as high as her knee. Sansa was careful not to let Ser Daemon Sand see her cut her arm, nor hear her sing the wound shut once her blood had dripped upon the roots. She would have done the same for the heart tree which stood atop the shattered crest of Aegon's Hill, if only she were able to reach it. Deziel had gone more than once, to prune away the charred wood and broken limbs from the living trunk, and he said it was still very difficult to climb through the rubble. One of the gardeners Deziel had recruited to help him had fallen into a hidden cellar; the man had cracked his skull and broken his arm.

Sansa wanted to break something when her prayers were done. As she walked back inside the Aegonfort, she could think of nothing but the argument which had been left unresolved. How dare Olyvar try to leave her behind? Mathis Rowan was steady and prudent, a fine choice to serve as King's Hand; he did not require Sansa's guidance.

She was still fuming as Gilly and Shirei helped her undress behind a screen. On the other side, Sweetrobin assisted Olyvar, who explained what his new squire should be doing with utmost patience. During the long pauses whilst Sweetrobin tried his best to follow each instruction, Olyvar shared more news of the Vale.

"We stayed at Wickenden last night; Lord and Lady Waxley send their warm regards. So they ought, with how much beeswax and honey the crown promised to buy. They shall also be sending us a daughter to join your ladies, if it please you, once she's old enough. At present the girl is only five."

"I suppose if it pleases my lord husband, it will have to please me," Sansa said curtly. "How kind of you to ask."

Inept as his squire was, Olyvar still finished undressing first. She heard him settle Sweetrobin in the little sleeping cell formerly occupied by Lord Edric Dayne, just as she heard him climb in bed with a rustle of curtains and a faint creak of wood and rope. Once she'd sent her maids away, Sansa had no choice but to join him. Spurning her husband's open arms, Sansa curled on her side of the bed, as close to the edge as she dared. Buttons mewled, dismayed by the change in routine, but Holdfast was quick to take advantage, his tail wagging frantically as he claimed a spot by his master.

In the quiet of an unspoken truce, Olyvar confided the rest of the news of the Vale, that which could only be shared with the curtains drawn around them. He spoke of Sweetrobin, of the open smiles and cold eyes which had greeted the Lord of the Eyrie when he alighted in the yard of the Gates of the Moon. He spoke of lords and ladies clamoring to foster their liege lord, of Sweetrobin's terror of strangers and King Aegon's doubts as to whom he could trust.

"Too many would rather have Harry the Heir," Olyvar told her. "And those who prefer Lord Robert... well, strict discipline and a firm hand might toughen the boy, but it might just as easily break him. Lord Andar Royce thinks the boy's shaking sickness is nothing more than hysterics brought on by coddling. Lady Waynwood disagrees, but her maester thinks the surest remedy is to open a small hole in the boy's skull. He believes it is an excess of phlegm which brings on the fits, either that or a tumor which presses upon the brain."

Of course, when King Aegon announced he would take the boy as his squire, the lords of the Vale were less than eager to let their little falcon fly away. To assuage them, Lord Grafton would be joining the small council as master of ships, while minor offices would be found for old Lord Melcolm and a few other lords. Olyvar was well aware he had not won the Vale's devotion so much as benefited from their squabbling amongst themselves. Should King Aegon not prove open-handed, he feared some would gladly crown Harrold Hardyng, whilst others would fight to bend their knees to Robb Stark once more.

"To forestall such temptation, I invited a number of their heirs to court as honored guests." Olyvar smiled grimly. "Some of the lords were not pleased, but they had no choice to accept."

There was more and worse before her husband finished his tale. Haunted by thoughts of naked bodies in the snow, Sansa rushed through the most important things which had happened whilst Olyvar was away. She left out the affair with Lyn Corbray; Deziel had already told him quite enough, and Sansa was in no mood to resume the argument when she ought to have been asleep hours ago.

Sleep came hard and lonely without her husband's embrace. Whilst he slumbered, Sansa tossed and turned, torn between numb exhaustion and the wild desire to have Olyvar make love to her, as if that would solve anything. When she finally slept, her dreams were dark, filled with burning ice-blue eyes and screaming winds. Then she roused to use the chamber pot, and afterwards drifted back to a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Over the next several days, Sansa avoided both her husband and their quarrel. It was not a difficult feat; whether he went north with or without her, King Aegon had much to accomplish and little time to spare. Sweetrobin was entrusted to the care of Maester Perceval, and of Ser Brynden Blackfish, who gave him lessons whenever the maester was otherwise occupied. When the Blackfish's considerable patience with his haughty great-nephew reached its limits, he foisted Sweetrobin off on Arya, or Sansa, or on King Aegon. More than one courtier had to muffle a laugh at the sight of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, trailing after the king more like a lost puppy than a squire.

There would be more of them soon. Olyvar had decided he would have seven pages and squires, one for each of the Seven Kingdoms and the seven faces of god. Lord Monterys Velaryon, a boy of twelve, would soon arrive from Driftmark; Hugor Hasty, even younger, was being summoned from the Stormlands.

From the Reach King Aegon had chosen the bold Owen Costayne; from Dorne, the shy, stout Yoren Yronwood. Whether that would please Lord Yronwood, Rhaenys could not say. He had sent his nephews Archibald and Yoren north with his daughter Gwyneth in hopes that the elder would be made a Kingsguard, not the younger a mere page. Ser Archibald was big, broad, and a dangerous opponent in the training yard, but alas, the Kingsguard already had a Dornish knight.

The Kingsguard's ranks were growing swiftly. Ser Clarence Crabb, old Lord Crabb's second son, was more than glad to accept the honor of a white cloak. A seasoned warrior in his forties, the knight had proved himself more than worthy at the Battle of Bitter Winds. Olyvar hoped Ser Loras Tyrell's brashness would be balanced by Ser Clarence's steady temper; the knight was a widower, his children already grown. Another white cloak would soon grace the shoulders of Ser Alyn Estermont, who had saved the life of Lord Jon Penrose during the first Battle of the Rainwood and slain Lord Mertyns' heir in the second. Assuming, of course, that Ser Alyn responded favorably to the raven which King Aegon had sent him.

Countless ravens flew hither and yon, keeping Maester Lonnel busy at all hours of the day and night. Lord Marbrand begged to be given his son's bones before he accepted his attainder and struck his banners; Lady Mallery pleaded for men to drive off the outlaws plaguing her villages and holdfasts; Ser Gerold Dayne, the Knight of High Hermitage, petitioned for ownership of certain lands, as did dozens of other lords and knights. There were ravens from the High Septon at Harrenhal; there were ravens from the Most Devout of Oldtown who had survived the burning of the Starry Sept.

But no ravens brought word of Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Sansa wondered where they were, what they were doing, whether they knew the fate that awaited them when they were caught. Their trials would be brief, unlike their deaths.

The Kingslayer was to be drawn, hanged, gelded, flayed, disemboweled, and beheaded. Only her womanhood spared Cersei from sharing the gallows with her twin; the former queen was to be burned at the stake. And she would not be so lucky as Myrcella, who had perished in a flash of wildfire without knowing either fear or pain. Cersei would be forced to walk to her own doom, to be bound fast to the stake, to choke on suffocating clouds of smoke, to scream when the first flames grasped at her feet.

The very thought might have given Sansa nightmares, were she not busier than a hive in spring. Sansa meant to go north, and that meant setting her affairs in order so that all were beyond reproach. Her persistant exhaustion could not be indulged with lying abed or taking naps; all the duties which had fallen to the wayside during King Aegon's absence had to be picked up again, and more besides.

The queen's household obligations came first. Sansa spent long hours conferring with Jeyne Poole, and with Meri, who had taken charge of training the folk from the hollow hill. Shirei was proving a competent maid; her husband Tarber seemed likely to make a decent gardener. Liane and her son Pate were ensconced in the kitchens, the young brothers Patrek and Theo in the stables.

"Damina might serve as a laundress," Meri frowned, "if she stops picking fights. And Bethany and Tansy—"

Sansa bolted for the chamberpot, cutting her off. When she returned, Meri resumed making her reports. Placing her folk in jobs that suited their talents was only the beginning. All must be clothed according to their station; her household must not look shabby. That meant livery, livery as elegant as befit the queen's own servants. Doublets and tunics and breeches, gowns and hose, shirts and shoes, cloaks and gloves, all in Stark grey and white, with deep red trim to match the weirwood leaves which crowned the howling wolf Sansa had taken as her personal sigil.

The queen could have howled herself when Jeyne Poole told her how much dressing her household would cost. Thank the gods she had her own lands and incomes now, courtesy of her lord husband. There were sundry small but prosperous holdings, all taken from attainted lords of the Crownlands, but the richest jewel was Stokeworth. The keep and the lands were hers, save a southeastern portion which had been gifted to Lord Olyvar Rosby, whose lands adjoined. Lands and incomes had been gifted to Princess Rhaenys too. She would need them when the day came that she must yield Dragonstone; it was only hers until an heir of King Aegon's body was born.

But she must not think about that. There was no time, no time at all, and no Mother to guide her. Oh, how Sansa wanted her mother! Princess Elia helped when she could, but she was often ill, or busy with her sept. Princess Rhaenys was too overbearing; Lady Smallwood too unfamiliar. At least she had Jeyne Poole, whose steadfast support was as welcome as the gossip she had Meri gather from the servants.

Sansa was not quite sure what to make of Jeyne and Meri. No one else seemed to have noticed anything queer about their closeness, about the way their eyes followed each other. Ladies were often fond of their maids, and maids devoted to their mistresses. Nor was it unusual for a lady and her maid to share a bed. But that the scent of musk should linger on Jeyne's lips and hands, that Meri should hide lovebites beneath the high collar of her gown... well. It was one thing for ladies to keep company with other ladies; in Meereen it was barely a secret that Nymeria Sand and Jennelyn Fowler were lovers.

The thought of lovemaking put Sansa in a sour mood. Angry as she was at her husband, she still ached for his touch. Caressing herself in the bath was not enough; she needed Olyvar. But the argument still lay between them, unresolved, and she would not yield to her ardor until Olyvar gave way.

In the meantime, Sansa had yet more work to distract her. King Aegon was not the only one who must choose courtiers to surround him. Queen Sansa must have ladies-in-waiting, the women who would surround her night and day, serving her purposes in public and tending her most intimate needs in private.

Lady Nymella Toland had offered plenty of advice on how to choose her ladies; Sansa wished she had remembered to write all of it down before Lady Toland sailed back to Dorne. Politics was part of it, of course; her choices must not provoke offense. Already some grumbled that a northwoman ought not be mistress of the queen's household; she must not show excessive favor to any one family or kingdom. Beauty, birth, and riches must be taken into account, not to mention the lady's character and reputation.

Above all those considerations, Sansa wanted ladies she could trust. But how, when she knew so little of them, when their acquaintance could be measured in days or weeks rather than years? How could she possibly choose ladies worthy of coming north with her, or remaining behind as her eyes and ears? At least she could hope to trust Valena Toland, Lady Toland's eldest daughter and heir, who was expected any day. And one of the Celtigar girls was promising, although Sansa was loathe to reward Lady Celtigar's ceaseless hectoring.

Visiting Brienne gave Sansa a ready excuse to escape the old woman's clutches. Maester Perceval was baffled by her improvement, or rather, that he had so badly misjudged her initial injury. Regardless, the maester strongly urged another week of bedrest, followed by the use of crutches for several months. The knee was a tricky thing. With time and care, the ligament might remain strong enough to allow Brienne to take up arms once more. Or, if strained excessively before it healed, it might snap and render the leg permanently lame.

"Either way, my lady," the maester said, "your agility will never fully return, and you will never be able to trust that knee." And with that he left, though not before a few pointed questions about the queen's health which Sansa pointedly ignored.

"I'm so sorry, Your Grace," Brienne said when he was gone. She sniffled, tears watering her cheeks. "I failed you."

"Even the greatest warrior can be wounded," Sansa objected hotly. "You did your best; I could ask no more." She shifted in her seat, uneasy, troubled both by her bladder and by guilt. "If anything, it is I who owe you an apology. I ought to have warned you we meant to lure Lyn Corbray into the open."

Brienne frowned. "Perhaps." She gave her knee a bitter look. "If you had, I might still be whole."

"I broke faith with you, when you never broke faith with me." Sansa swallowed, resisting the urge to cry. "I beg your pardon, my lady. If by word or deed I can make amends, you need only speak your wish and I will make it so."

"Your Grace—"

"Sansa," Sansa corrected.

Brienne ignored her. "When Renly died, I meant to avenge him and then follow him to the grave. Your lady mother would not let me. Lady Catelyn gave me new purpose, to find and defend her daughters and return them to her arms. I failed that quest, but since you accepted my oath of service, I have done my utmost to protect you. I followed you to Sunspear, to Meereen, to Dragonstone, and never regretted it, not for a moment. Now..." Brienne hesitated. "Sansa, I want to go home. I want to see my father, if he yet lives; I want to walk upon the shores of Tarth and wed my betrothed. Yet when you pressed me to visit, how could I accept? You had so few worthy swords about you; I could not abandon my duty and leave my queen defenseless."

"Then the gods saw fit to take a hand. I cannot guard you now, perhaps ever again. As such..." Brienne took a deep breath. "I ask that you release me from my vows."

"I release you. If you will excuse me?" And with that, Sansa ran for the privy, tears running down her face.

After that, visiting Talla Tarly was nothing. The former queen was wide-eyed and frail in her mourning clothes, as wispy as the shade which she claimed had bade her flee the throne room and take shelter beneath the heart tree. "It was Tommen's ghost, it was," she insisted, stroking the one-eyed hound who sat at her feet. The dog was all she had left of her brother Dickon, just as Ser Pounce was all she had left of Tommen. The ginger and white cat would not be parted from Talla; her bedmaid had told Meri that the cat even crawled beneath the covers to comfort his girl in the night. Sansa was glad Lady Talla would have some company on her long journey to Horn Hill.

Septon Jonothor would be much happier when she was gone. It did not please him that Lady Talla had begun praying to the weirwood sapling, nor that she had met some folk of the hollow hill there and promptly adopted their heretical views. Ser Marlon Manderly, unimpressed, informed Sansa that if anything, weirwoods would be sacred to the Stranger, not the Mother, Maiden, and Crone. Or so one of his ancestors had said, before the High Septon caught wind of Lord Warrick Manderly's queer notions and pronounced an anathema upon the Lord of White Harbor until he repented of his folly.

Then Lady Celtigar found her, and Sansa heard no more of ancient heresies. Instead, she was treated to a prolonged, insincere bout of flattery, followed by an absurdly lengthy list of Arthor Celtigar's many admirable qualities.

"I am sure he is a very fine boy," Sansa told her, yet again. "But King Aegon has already chosen Lord Monterys Velaryon to be his page from the Crownlands."

"But does His Grace have a squire from the Crownlands?" Lady Celtigar asked shrewdly.

A petty impulse seized her, too tempting to resist. "Why, I had not thought of it that way, my lady. You should broach the idea to my lord husband yourself, as soon as he returns."

Olyvar had flown off yesterday, determined to quell the last scattered fighting in the Stormlands. The Trants had surrendered, as had the Errols and the Swanns of Stonehelm, but the Fells, Bucklers, Wyldes, and Mertyns had proved recalcitrant. No doubt they would find good reason to reconsider when they caught sight of Viserion above their walls.

Sansa wished she could fly away. Failing that, she settled for an afternoon ride in the snowy kingswood. Arya was delighted to accompany her, deeply bored by endless hours standing guard outside her chambers. Sweetrobin rode pillion behind her, being too new to the saddle to try riding by himself outside the yard, and too stubborn to accept being left out. Sansa was glad their cousin had Arya to look after him, though Arya herself still had much to learn. They had been apart for too long; she needed the gentle guidance of a loving elder sister.

Sister. The wind shifted; she caught the scent of pack. Sister, her sister was here, not just her girl-sister but her pack-sister. Sansa itched with the urge to slip her skin, to run free on four paws, to howl and hunt with the pack. But she dared not, not in her current state, nor with so many courtiers about. As it was, when Nymeria came sprinting out of the trees Elia Uller startled, and Ser Loras Tyrell swore with a vehemence he usually reserved for his arguments with Ser Daemon Sand. Well used to the direwolf's antics, Ser Perwyn Truefaith chuckled; even Sansa could not help smiling as she nudged her horse to a trot.

She would have liked to ride through the city too, had she the time for it. Instead Sansa was forced to rely on Arya to be her eyes and ears. As Nymeria loped between them, Arya told her all that she had seen. The giving of queen's loaves to the poor, a notion which Sansa had conceived while crossing the Narrow Sea, continued to go well. There was not enough bread to go around, but at least some bellies would not go empty.

Sansa was giving coin to the almshouses to, and to the dozen singers she had hired to lift the people's spirits. Some had come with her across the sea, and knew every song she had ever written. Others were locals, hired to write their own songs about all that had transpired since King Aegon landed upon Dragonstone. Galyeon of Cuy had a song about the Battle of Bitter Winds; Alaric of Eysen, meanwhile, had composed a ballad in honor of Princess Elia, and Bethany Fair-fingers already had a tune about Brienne's defeat of Ser Lyn Corbray.

"You should have written some songs about the Others," Arya said bluntly. "Everyone seems to know King Aegon means to fly north, and most of them aren't happy about it. The Wall might as well be in Yi Ti, or on the moon, for all they know or care."

Sansa scowled, just as she scowled later that night when she tentatively told Arya and Jeyne about her argument with her husband. "How could Olyvar possibly think that I would stay behind?" she fumed, keeping still so Gilly could take down her hair. "The North may not be my home anymore, but I'm still a Stark of Winterfell!"

"And his lady wife, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Jeyne reminded her. "It is only natural that King Aegon would think to have you remain here. His lady mother is sickly, and his sister has her own affairs. He needs someone trustworthy to keep an eye on them, and on his new small council. Someone who will send regular ravens to keep him informed of all that happens in the city and at court. Who will do it, if not you?"

Taken aback, Sansa groped for an answer. "Someone that I can trust to stay here in my stead?"

The same realization struck both Sansa and Jeyne in unison. Sansa grinned, almost giddy. Jeyne covered her face with her hands and gave a most unladylike groan.

"I don't want to," Jeyne said, almost on the verge of tears. "I missed you so much, and we've only been together for what, two moons, if that?"

"I know," Sansa said, taking her truest friend by the hands. "But there is no one else in this city that I know half so well as you."

"I'm right here," Arya grumbled.

"Oh, go polish Needle." Sansa rolled her eyes. "We both know you'd rather marry a widower with six children than be forced to play politics with courtiers for who knows how long until I return."

"Rude." Arya stuck her tongue out, making Meri cover a giggle. "I mean, you aren't wrong, but still."

Both amused and annoyed, Sansa made no attempt to stop Arya when she stood and made her exit without even asking the queen's leave. Jeyne was her only concern at present. They talked and talked until the bells rang the Hour of the Stranger, then curled up in the queen's bed and talked some more. She had forgotten how pleasant a bedmaid Jeyne could be. Her barbs about Lady Celtigar and Lord Staunton made Sansa giggle; her careful questions about Maester Perceval's persistent pestering of the queen made Sansa rethink her stubbornness as she drifted to sleep.

And so when during Sansa's midmorning visit to the privy she felt a mild cramp, and noticed faint brown spots on her smallclothes, she sent for Maester Perceval. The maester smiled and hummed to himself as he examined her, his plump hands gentle. When he finished, Perceval asked her a number of odd questions, followed by asking that the next time Her Grace used the chamberpot, she have a maid bring it to his chambers.

An hour and several cups of water later, Shirei bustled off to the maester. Outside her open window Sansa heard the babbling of voices; Viserion had returned. The sky was grey and bleak, the winds unkind as they wafted the stench of dragon through the air, upsetting her keen nose until she bade Gilly close the window.

Sansa was still pondering whether to greet her lord husband when he strode into their chambers. King Aegon's face was streaked with soot, his eyes hollow. Gilly did not need to be told to quit the room; she fled without a word, only a quick curtsy.

When they were alone, Olyvar crumpled into her arms. She could not refuse him, not when tears ran down his cheeks, his breath catching as he sobbed. Sansa stroked his hair and kissed his brow, her heart aching when he refused to tell her what had happened, how the defiant lords' schemes had miscarried. All he would say was that Lord Wylde was dead and the Rain House had yielded, as had all the other keeps.

"But enough of that," Olyvar said wearily. "I have no stomach for it. I had rather resolve this rift between us, as I should have before I left. When next I leave, your place belongs in the Aegonfort, not the north."

"I must go north," Sansa pleaded. "Not just for my own sake, but for yours. How could I let you face the Others alone, without hope of succor until you return? And what of my brothers? Two kings have not fought beneath the same banners for centuries; if Robb proves difficult, I am the only one who could bridge the gap between you."

"I do need you," Olyvar sighed. "But the realm needs you more."

"The realm will be fine," Sansa snapped. "King Robert and Queen Cersei left the capital for nigh on six moons when I was a girl, and King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne spent almost a year in the North when they went there on a royal progress—"

"During peacetime," Olyvar interrupted sharply. "Not while securing a new conquest! The gods only know how long I may be stuck up there, and—"

A sudden knock came at the door, sharp and loud. They might have ignored it, but the knocking continued, insistent. Olyvar scrubbed at his eyes, unable to tell that he was achieving nothing but smearing soot over the tracks of his tears. Once he had composed himself, King Aegon's voice rang out.

"Who is it?"

"Maester Perceval," came the reply.

"Bid him enter," Sansa murmured, her nerves aflutter.

The maester was sweating when he entered, his face red. Had he sprinted all the way from his chambers? Why would he run? Sansa gripped Olyvar by the hand, her stomach roiling.

Then the maester smiled, giddy as a boy. "Her Grace is with child."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat; for a moment, silence fell. Then Olyvar whooped, so loud they must have heard him at the Wall. He leapt to his feet, pulling Sansa up with him so he could sweep her into a dance. Round and round he twirled her, until they were both flushed and Sansa was breathless with laughter. The spell did not break until the maester asked leave to be excused, leave which Olyvar quickly granted.

Alone again, Olyvar kissed her senseless. Sansa kissed him back, overwhelmed by the feel of his hands upon her hair and waist, by the feel of his skin as she clutched him tight, by the warmth between her legs as they frantically undressed. Once they were naked, Olyvar lavished her with kisses and compliments, praising everything from her gasps to the cherry-red freckles that marred her breasts and the slight swell of her belly. Their lovemaking was all Sansa had wanted and more; she had never felt so treasured, so cherished, so adored.

After, they lay abed, panting and sweaty. When she asked him to open the nearest window, Olyvar groaned good-naturedly. "As my lady pleases. I could hardly manage to refuse you anything even before you carried our babe." Once he had obliged her, he came back to bed, followed by a brisk draft of cold air so sweet that Sansa could have basked in it all afternoon. Sleepy and content, she lay back upon the pillows, savoring the thought of cuddles and a nap.

Then Olyvar spoke. "My love, surely now you must see reason. This is no time for a long journey, not in your delicate condition. The risk—"

"Pregnant women have traveled before," Sansa flared, suddenly wide awake. "Maester Perceval has delivered dozens of babes; he is more than capable of ensuring I come to no harm."

"Women lose babes all the time," Olyvar reminded her, his voice gentle.

"Some even die in childbed," Sansa said. "Could you forgive yourself if you left me behind and I perished whilst you were away?" She was breathing much too quickly; her eyes blurred with tears. "If I went through my labors without you, if I cried for you knowing you would not come, if I breathed my last upon this bed, and was buried before you ever knew, before you even had the chance for a last glimpse of my face?"

Olyvar stared at her, stricken. "Sansa, don't talk like that," he said, choking back a sob. "I can't- you won't-" he drew a ragged breath. "The gods would not let—"

"The gods want me to go north! Or had you not noticed the cold never seems to hurt me, just as it cannot hurt you, or Arya?" A beam of sunlight shone through the window, so unexpected that Sansa gaped and Olyvar turned and looked.

"Is that not a sign?" Sansa demanded, hiccuping through her sobs. "Or have you forgotten you would not even be here if not for me? You, your sister, your mother, all of you were dead and buried before I was born, and you would have stayed that way if I had not- if I had not-" she hiccuped again, trying to find her words. "Harrenhal- the blood- the weirwood- so much magic, it hurt, and I- and then- and then- and then everything changed, but no one knew, no one remembered—"

Strong arms wrapped around her. Olyvar stroked her hair as she wept into his chest, keeping silent save to offer to fetch her a cup of water, an offer Sansa refused.

"This is a terrible idea," he murmured when at last she could weep no more. "We would have to leave even more quickly than I had planned. And without you at court..."

"Jeyne Poole will stay here," Sansa sniffled. "I already spoke to her. I can trust Jeyne to keep watch, to report anything amiss which the small council might not share. And you will have your lady mother and Rhaenys too, and Viserion to bring you south should anything urgent arise."

"Would that I could be in two places at once," Olyvar sighed. "But as I cannot... oh, your sister is going to be insufferable."

"What? Why?"

"I ran into Arya in the yard," Olyvar told her. "She was about to ride into the city. When I asked her to run an errand to the Street of Steel, she told me that I was being stupid, and whatever we were fighting about, I should just let you win."

As if she had been summoned, Arya's familiar quick knock rapped at the door. They scrambled to make themselves decent; Sansa could hear Arya tapping her foot as she waited outside. When Olyvar finally granted her permission to enter, Arya strode in, a jewelry casket in one hand and a letter in the other.

"Here," Arya said, handing them to Olyvar. "With compliments from Tobho Mott and from Maester Lonnel."

Arya glanced around the room, raising an eyebrow when she saw the rumpled sheets. Sansa blushed. But her embarrassment was forgotten when Olyvar presented her with the open casket, a bashful smile lighting his soot-streaked face.

"Oh!" Sansa gasped in wonderment. She had barely begun to admire the Valyrian steel crown, wrought in the shape of delicate weirwood leaves and set with garnets, when some instinct made her look at Olyvar. He stood frozen, staring at the tightly rolled parchment in his hand, his eyes wide.

"What is it?" Sansa asked. "Who is the raven from?"

Olyvar held out the letter, showing her a golden seal, stamped with the lion of Lannister.

Dun dun DUUUUUUUUN! While it took longer than I'd like, I am so proud of this absolute banger of a chapter. Sound off in the comments, I've missed y'all :D

As always, you can find me on tumblr @redwolf17.

Sansa's weirwood crown, by ohnoitsmyra

Up Next

166: Cersei II

167: Bran III

168: Olyvar III

169: Jon III

NOTES

1) Despite what you see in many films, plate armor was exceptionally useful protection. Getting around it required aiming for the joints of the armor, which were still protected by mail, or for the eyeslit.

2) The late medieval era and the Renaissance were times of great leaps forward in the understanding of human anatomy. As maesters are mentioned to have dissected dead bodies in canon for hundreds of years, a similarly solid (albeit limited) understanding of anatomy is justifiable.

3) Brienne suffered an ACL tear. The ACL is a major knee ligament; ACL injuries are relatively common among professional athletes. The injury is usually caused by sudden stops or pivots, where the thighbone and shinbone twist in opposite directions. If you're lucky, the body works around the injury, though a "trick knee" is highly likely. A severe tear will not heal itself; in the past, that could cause a permanent limp, but today, surgical intervention is used to repair the damage by replacing the torn ligament with a tendon.

4) Although early in the medieval era kings and queens often shared a single household, later the king and queen had separate households. Royal households were vast, complicated, and expensive. You should check out this fascinating discussion of how the households operated; see pages 96-105.

5) Yes, trepanation, aka drilling a hole in the skull, was a medieval remedy for epilepsy.

6) Here's a few more assorted links about medieval households. (EDIT: see Ao3 for links)

The Household Staff in an English Medieval Castle

Fantasy Guide to Employment: Household of a Castle

7) One medieval method to detect pregnancy was mixing urine with wine to observe the results. It was actually somewhat reliable, because the proteins in a pregnant person's pee can cause a reaction with the alcohol.

8) Here's just *some* of the many, many pregnancy hints, specifically the ones from BEFORE Sansa got pregnant:

Olyvar VI

Wind filled the sails and gave them swollen bellies; behind them the sun rose, her splendor turning the sky to gold, the sea to purple.

Jaime III

A crow's nest for a crow, he thought bitterly. This Targaryen king would have him trade his white cloak for a black, and the day of his doom drew nearer with each puff of lusty wind that made the ship's sails grow big-bellied.

Arya VII

The Vale was the only kingdom not bound to House Stark by blood, and Robb was the only Stark left to forge an alliance, with Bran lost and Sansa so far away. Robb thought she must be with child by now, despite the reassurances of her maidenhood in the last letter over a year ago.

...

"It is done, then?" Robb asked. "The marriage is consummated; is she already with child?"

"Neither, Your Grace," said Ser Deziel, with the look of a man who dearly wanted to punch something. "Queen Sansa is yet a maiden, the gods only know why. She loves the king as dearly as he loves her."

One chapter later: *the one where Sansa gets knocked up*

Seriously, I made sure to mention her moon blood when the timing for her fertility window/ovulation would line up with their week of nonstop sex xD