Late September- November, 301 AC
Sansa shifted uneasily in her chair, uncomfortably aware of her linen smallclothes sticking to her chest. She could not recall a more suffocating heat; the air was so damp she felt as if she was breathing steam. In the Rainwood there were cool breezes, swept in off the Narrow Sea, but no such winds favored the shores of the Dragon's Bay.
Her hands fell still, her needlework momentarily forgotten as Sansa looked out at the terrace of plum colored brick. Autumn came slowly to Meereen, scattered showers growing more frequent as ninth moon ended. Thick grey clouds covered the sky in tufts and puffs as soft as freshly carded wool; if she tilted her head she could almost see a flock of newly shorn sheep in the wisps on the horizon, eager to frolic now that they were freed of their heavy burden.
"The Smith gave men sheep so that we might keep warm," Lady Catelyn said as the shepherds carried in sack after sack of smelly wool, thick with grease and tangles and bits of twigs. "But it was the Mother who taught women how to clean the dirty wool, how to card it until it became soft, how to spin it into thread and weave the thread into cloth."
Each shepherd dipped his head, first to Lady Catelyn, then to Sansa herself, mumbling "m'lady" in rough voices before leaving to fetch more sacks of wool. Sansa watched them go, wrinkling her nose at the smell of sheep dung. She didn't know how Mother could stand the stink; when she carried Bran everything made her queasy. The new babe in her belly didn't seem to care about foul smells, it was too busy making Lady Catelyn eat everything in sight.
"Septa Mordane says ladies don't spin or weave," she protested, looking up at her mother in confusion. Lady Catelyn smiled as she took Sansa by the hand, leading her out of the small barn. "That is true, sweetling. But ladies must understand the smallfolk's work. How else are we to guide them, to make sure that each step is done properly so we have enough bolts of wool to last the winter?"
Her mother's voice faded away. The few patches of sky might be white against the grey clouds, but the sight of Stark colors could not raise her spirits, not even when sweet rain at last spilled forth and covered the world in a shimmering diamond veil.
For half a heartbeat Sansa wondered if the same rain was falling upon Winterfell, before she realized she was being stupid. Winterfell was thousands of leagues north of here; if the same rain fell, it would surely turn to snow. There would be soft white drifts everywhere, perfect for making snowballs, snow knights, even snowcastles. Once, when old Lord Commander Qorgyle came to see Father when Sansa was very little, Robb and Jon Snow had built an enormous snow mountain atop one of the gates and shoved the entire thing on a black brother passing beneath. Sansa should have told Mother, but the black brother was laughing when he dug himself out of the snow, and running to the kitchen for hot cider seemed much nicer than the trouble of finding where Mother was.
A dull ache throbbed in her breast. She would never find Mother again. Lady Catelyn was gone, just like Lord Eddard. Did the stones of Winterfell remember the echo of their steps? Did their shades still haunt the great featherbed in Mother's chambers, laughing and teasing one another as they used to?
Surely they were Arya's chambers now. It was easy to imagine her sister curled up in the immense bed of a night, listening to Jeyne make up witty names for the folk about the keep, snuggling with Meri. During the day she would be playing with Rickon, or water dancing, or taking lessons with Beth Cassel and the other young ladies. Arya would be too busy hating her lessons to worry about hating Sansa for failing to come home.
It still felt slightly strange, how much she missed Arya. They had fought so much back at Winterfell... but that was before. Before Arya helped her say goodbye to Lady. Before Arya swore to be her sworn sword. Before Arya helped save Robb from the treacherous Freys while Sansa sat useless in King's Landing.
Sansa could not be useless again. That was why she had chosen to sail across the Narrow Sea with her lord husband. Ser Olyvar Sand had saved her from the dangers of Queen Cersei's court; how could she let him face Queen Daenerys alone? He was a knight, not a courtier. He didn't know how to study each subtle gesture and carefully chosen word, how to keep his head down and survive like she had before the Lannisters put her on trial. And what of Robb? What if Queen Daenerys saw him as her enemy, a usurper to be crushed beneath her dainty feet? She was Sansa Stark, Princess of Winterfell; who else would speak for her people at the dragon queen's court, if not her?
She prayed the fleet of ships from the Summer Isles returned soon. Sending letters across the Narrow Sea was far more difficult than simply sending a raven. Any letter she wrote to Robb must await the return of Chatana Qo, who would deliver their letters to Sunspear. Only then would Princess Arianne's maester send the letter on to Winterfell by raven. But Chatana Qo and the rest of the Summer Islanders were still making the trader's circle of the Jade Sea, the holds of their ships packed full with Dornish luxuries and much of the gold Prince Oberyn had taken from King's Landing.
Unseating the Lannisters required a war chest, after all. Corlys Velaryon had amassed incredible wealth on his voyages, and while House Martell might not have admirals or captains like the Sea Snake, there was more than one way to pluck a goose. Outfitting a fleet of swan ships was a small expense, compared to the riches to be made when they returned laden with silk and spices. If they returned. There were plenty of pirates betwixt Meereen and Yi Ti, and autumn storms that could blow a ship off course.
A faint thunderclap echoed across the bay as rain pounded down on the terrace garden and the fruit trees that grew there. Sansa could smell the persimmons and pears, their sour tang tinged by the faintest hint of sweetness as they began to ripen. One pear would never turn sweet; it fell to the ground with a hard thump, its green skin bright against the deep plum bricks of the terrace.
"Lady Sansa?" Queen Daenerys was looking at her, silver eyebrows arched over violet eyes. They sat in the queen's solar, a strange company of women who shared little besides their high birth. The Dothraki lady Jhiqui plucked at a long-necked three string lute; her sister Lady Irri painted an intricate design on a vest while the little Naathi scribe Missandei painted intricate letters on parchment. The Westerosi ladies applied themselves to their needlework, though Lady Nymeria Sand and Lady Jennelyn Fowler talked more than they sewed, and Lady Nymella Toland had set her fine work aside for a book of poetry.
"Yes, Your Grace?" Sansa made sure to smile before taking back up her needle, eyeing the weirwood leaf she was stitching. She could embroider the Stark direwolf in her sleep, but adding a crown of weirwood leaves required close attention, lest it sit crookedly. Although she had made enough badges for Lady Brienne of Tarth and Gilly's clothes, she would one day have many more folk in her service, and they would need badges too.
"Why do you wear your hair loose?" The queen lightly touched her own hair, whose fine silver strands were woven into braids. "I cannot imagine having my hair on the back of my neck in this heat."
Sansa was suddenly aware that the back of her neck was uncomfortably damp, a droplet of sweat trickling down her spine. "It is a custom, Your Grace. In the Seven Kingdoms, highborn maids wear their hair loose, to show they are under the Maiden's protection."
"How silly," Daenerys said, frowning at the needlework in her lap. "Do highborn maids not ride horses? Or go outside on windy days?" Behind the queen's back Nym and Jennelyn exchanged a look of scornful amusement.
"They do, Your Grace. Hairnets are favored for such occasions, or perhaps a single long braid if need be." Sansa hesitated, choosing her words with care. "It is not that they wear their hair loose every hour of the day, but when in company with other highborn lords and ladies. After a woman is wedded and bedded, she cannot wear her hair loose without having some part of it up, to show she belongs to the Mother now."
"But then your hair should be up," Daenerys said, perplexed. "Has it not been more than a year since you wed Ser Olyvar?" A tiny crease appeared on her brow, a vague, condescending sympathy. "Is it because you are not yet with child?"
Sansa bit back a yelp as the needle jabbed into her finger. Lady Jhiqui's playing abruptly stopped; Lady Irri's brush hovered above her leather canvas; Lady Nymella looked up from her book.
"Wedded does not mean bedded, Your Grace," Lady Nymella said brusquely. "Ser Olyvar swore a holy vow not to exercise his rights until Princess Sansa comes of age. Whatever customs of Essos you may be used to, in Westeros ladies come of age at six-and-ten."
"It is the same for Dothraki," Lady Irri said suddenly, glancing at the queen.
"You have not—" Queen Daenerys had a very odd look on her face. "But you are wedded, you share the same rooms, he brings you to the dragonpit—" she trailed off into silence, scowling down at her needlework sampler. It was the first few letters of the Common Tongue, rendered in harsh, blocky lines of scarlet thread, the sort of thing a child might make.
A queen she might be, but Daenerys Targaryen knew less of the Seven Kingdoms than a highborn child half her age. Sansa tried to be patient, remembering that the queen had neither septa nor maester to instruct her, but it was hard not to wince when Queen Daenerys dismissed tactful offers to teach her how to dance and sing, how to discuss famous works of poetry and how to write her own.
"Does Westeros lack for dancers and singers and poets?" She had laughed, not noticing how the Dornish ladies glanced at each other. "Let them earn their coin; I shall spend my hours ruling, not dancing."
Teaching the queen to dress in the Westerosi fashion was somewhat easier, but Daenerys did not hide her preference for Meereenese stozars and their draping folds and for the Tyroshi gowns which left the shoulders bare. It took weeks to convince Daenerys that needlework was a common pastime among Westerosi ladies, one which she would need to learn if she intended to cross the Narrow Sea. Lady Toland had taught needlework to her own daughters and to other young ladies, but instructing a queen was much trickier when Daenerys might abandon the lesson at any moment to speak with her Hand or other members of her council, or whatever other excuse she could find.
It therefore came as little surprise when Daenerys rose to her feet, discarding her sampler on her chair. "Let us take a walk, Lady Sansa; I tire of sitting." The queen glanced at the ladies-in-waiting, both those who were her own and those who belonged to Sansa. "You may remain as you are; I shall return." Daenerys did not seem to notice Lady Toland's raised eyebrow, nor the hesitant quirk of Sansa's lips in answer.
The door to the queen's chambers was guarded by Unsullied in quilted tunics and by the queensguard Strong Belwas, an immense bald eunuch who went barechested. Robett Glover stood guard beside them, his arms crossed over his surcoat as he glowered into his beard. The eunuch and the northman made an odd pair as they fell in behind their charges, Strong Belwas behind Daenerys, Lord Robett behind Sansa.
Queen Daenerys said nothing as she led Sansa down the hall, toward the steps which led to the lower levels of the pyramid. It did not matter; Sansa knew the destination the queen had in mind. Today was the day of Viserion's feeding; Daenerys would want to question Olyvar.
Nearly five moons had come and gone since that awful, awful day beneath the pyramid. Sansa could not say which grieved Daenerys more, the miscarriage she suffered or the suffering of the dragon she saw as her child. Not that the queen could bear to see Viserion. Daenerys had been confined to her bed for several weeks whilst she recovered from losing her babe, and as soon as the queen was well enough to ride again she could be found everywhere but the dragonpit.
At last they reached the hallway of grey brick which held the chambers Sansa shared with Ser Olyvar, his squire, her maid, and her sworn sword. Ser Gulian Qorgyle stood guard, accompanied by a few men-at-arms. Although Daenerys entered the room without pausing, Sansa stopped for a moment, favoring the Dornish knight with a smile and a few words of High Valyrian so that he might correct her accent. Ser Gulian's salt-and-pepper mustache bristled as he repeated the words slowly, exaggerating the movement of his lips so she might imitate it. It took several tries before she got it right; High Valyrian was slippery and smooth, much harder than northron or the few words she knew of Rhoynish.
When she finally entered the solar it was to find a rather odd scene. Ser Olyvar sat on a plush floor cushion, a book opened across his crossed legs. His hair was still wet from the bath, and Buttons lay sprawled against his hip. Lord Edric Dayne sat on a cushion beside him, frowning over The Father's Chosen, or, a discourse on the habits of dutiful lords. Though his aunt Allyria Dayne held Starfall, it was only as castellan to her nephew, and she had sent several tomes on the principles of ruling which Lord Edric was expected to study when not training or waiting upon his knight master.
Queen Daenerys had not immediately interrupted Ser Olyvar's reading as she usually did. Instead she stared at the terrace, where little Kit was gleefully jumping in puddles under Gilly's watchful eye. Sansa could not help but smile; Kit was a bold, robust little boy whose love of trying to open and close anything with a handle or lid could only be matched by his love of running around naked before and after every bath.
"How old is he?" Daenerys asked. Sansa had never heard the queen's voice so high and girlish, yet Gilly startled, her dark eyes filled with fear.
"He- he's almost two, Your Grace," Gilly answered, eyes lowered.
"I might have had a son like him," Daenerys whispered as if to herself.
Sansa's tummy roiled as she remembered the sight of Olyvar, his tunic drenched with water and with blood. His eyes were wide and white as he sent Edric running to have a bath made ready before vanishing behind the ornamental screen that concealed the copper tub, clothes flying everywhere as he stripped to await his bath. Only after servants came with steaming water and left with empty buckets could she persuade Olyvar to explain himself as he scrubbed behind the screen.
He had gone to visit Queen Daenerys to tell her about Viserion. When she rose from her bath they saw the water was red, and she collapsed into his arms, still bleeding from between her legs. Lady Irri had run for Maester Perceval while Olyvar held the delirious queen. Prince Consort Aegor had arrived shortly after, panicked as the sight of so much blood, and gone running for Haldon Halfmaester. By the time Perceval and Haldon arrived Daenerys had already lost the babe, and Aegor took her into his arms as they tried to staunch the bleeding. At that point, Olyvar had fled.
"The babe was fully formed," Olyvar said in a choked voice from behind the screen, water quietly sloshing. "It might have fit in the palm of my hand..."
"Daenerys will be fine," Sansa told him, lacking better words of comfort. "Women have miscarried since time began; the birthing bed is our battleground." That was what The Seven-Pointed Star said, at any rate. Arya would no doubt prefer a true battleground, but Sansa would gladly take bearing children over bearing a sword.
Olyvar's laugh was harsh and bitter. "A cruel battleground, where friend and foe are the same. How many children die before their first breath? How many kill their mothers through sheer mischance?"
There was no answer to such bitter words, so Sansa sang hymns instead. When Olyvar finally emerged from his bath, wrapped in shift and bedrobe, Sansa sat with him on their featherbed, telling him silly stories about Arya and her brothers and gently prying until he told her stories about his sisters. It was the least she could do, with how often he gave her solace from her nightmares.
Did nightmares plague Daenerys as they plagued her? Daenerys was proud and strong, the widow of a khal and conqueror of cities. And yet... as Daenerys stared at Kit, her eyes glassy, it was hard to forget that she was only seventeen.
It was Gilly who broke the silence, her voice soft as she plucked Kit from his current puddle. "Would Your Grace like to hold him?"
Daenerys hesitated, a look of desperate yearning upon her face. Kit took no notice of the queen; he toddled over to a new puddle and sat in it, splashing at the water with his chubby fists.
"No," Daenerys finally said. "No, I... I have other matters to attend to."
As if a spell had broken, the queen turned to Olyvar, barraging him with questions about the dragon beneath the pyramid, Olyvar answering with his usual calm. Yes, Viserion's appetite continued to return; Olyvar had given him a live sheep which he briefly chased before roasting and devouring it. No, Viserion had not tried to roast Olyvar or any of the Unsullied. No, the scars on Viserion's neck had not yet healed. Yes, the wounds remained clean, and Olyvar had replaced the bandages again. Yes, Viserion's cream scales and golden crest and horns seemed brighter. Yes, Olyvar thought it best that the dragon be permitted time outside the dragonpit as soon as possible, even with the wound and bandages.
At last satisfied, the queen departed after Sansa gently hinted that the queen should dismiss the ladies in her solar before she sought out Ser Barristan for a ride through the city. For all her pride and majesty, Daenerys did not always understand the power she held, how knights and ladies were required to stand until she gave permission for them to sit, how they must rise when she rose, how they must remain in one place unless she gave them leave to go.
Gentle hints were all Sansa dared; she could hardly scold the Mother of Dragons like she would scold Arya. Sansa had hoped the situation would improve over time, but the tenth moon of the year waxed and waned and nothing seemed to change.
"Has the prince consort not informed her of the necessary courtesies?" Sansa asked in a hushed voice one morning, bothered by the queen's continuing ignorance.
"I think he has," Olyvar replied, equally softly. Sound echoed on the servants' steps, but the descent to the dragonpit was too long to remain quiet the entire way. "But Daenerys never had ladies until she wed the khal, and for all his learning Aegor did not grow up in a keep. The courtesies which are natural to us are foreign to them."
"Queen Daenerys still calls me ser, sometimes," Lady Brienne added softly, torchlight flickering over her face. "I do not think she even notices that she is doing it."
"Perhaps," Olyvar said, his eyes shadowed, "but she should know better than to call Princess Sansa a lady."
She does know better, Sansa thought, she does not acknowledge Robb as a king. She did not speak the thought aloud; there were Unsullied standing guard at the entrance to the passageway. They stood aside for Olyvar, as they always did, not even looking at Sansa or Brienne. No one seemed to notice or care that Olyvar often brought his lady wife when he visited the dragonpit; so far as she could tell Daenerys simply thought Olyvar was showing off.
The great doors were bound with chains, as always. They clanked and rattled as the Unsullied removed them, opening the doors to a gust of warm air and a pair of eyes like molten gold. Viserion screeched as Olyvar entered the pit, holding up his hands to show he bore neither chain nor whip.
The dragonpit would be as empty as Olyvar's hands, if the maesters had had their way. After the first horrible visit Olyvar had described Viserion's state to Maester Perceval, Maester Lonnel, and Haldon Halfmaester, and all three agreed the beast was likely beyond healing. A healthy dragon was dangerous; a half-mad, injured dragon was something else entirely. Nor were any of the three willing to risk their skin by examining Viserion, even after he was given another dose of milk of the poppy when the first began to wear off.
Sansa was not present when the maesters gave Daenerys their counsel, but Olyvar said he'd never seen such desperate fury. The dragon was her child, the queen said, to kill him would be to kill herself. Instead Queen Daenerys set a blacksmith to the task of removing the iron collar as the dragon slept. When that was done she began searching without success for a healer to tend the festering wound. In the end only Olyvar and Prince Consort Aegor were brave enough to enter the dragonpit, armed with nothing but sharp knives, boiled vinegar, and long strips of linen soaked in fire wine.
Sansa was very glad she had not been present for that either; the stench of decay on Olyvar's clothes when he returned was more than her sensitive nose could bear. It had taken them hours to cut away the rotten flesh, wash the wound and wrap it in bandages, all the while wondering if the dragon might awaken and roast them where they stood. Half the city claimed that the black dragon ate children; who was to say that his white brother would abstain from eating men?
Speaking with Viserion when he finally awoke did not ease her fears. His voice was different than that of other beasts, louder and hotter, as though each word was the lash of a fiery whip against her mind. He had eaten man-flesh before, he informed her, showing her a memory of himself and his brothers feasting upon a pair of heads as his mother talked with a blue-bearded Tyroshi clad all in yellow. Though he had not eaten man-flesh since then, it was because he was kept well fed otherwise, not because of any regard for men. Men were little different than sheep, Viserion thought, but for their odd habit of walking on two legs and for their lack of fur.
Her heart was in her throat as Sansa watched Olyvar inspect the bandages on the dragon's neck, his face far too close to jaws that could spit flame at any moment. A low rumble of laughter echoed in her mind. I won't roast him, cold girl, the dragon said, turning his molten eyes on her. Much as I'd like to be rid of your nasty scent.
Viserion might appreciate her part in the removal of his collar, but he did not care for Sansa, even after she'd told Olyvar the dragon preferred to dine on live sheep, not dead ones. Apparently she smelled like cold winds and pine trees and deep pools of icy water, all of which the dragon despised. His annoyance perplexed her; her sensitive nose could not detect any such scents, nor could the noses of Buttons or any other animals nearby. All they smelled was the sharp-sweet lemon perfume she favored, a gift from Olyvar on her last nameday.
The dragon liked Olyvar's smell much better, claiming he smelled of hot sands and sunbaked stones and blazing fires. Even more perplexing was Viserion's tolerance for Brienne, who apparently smelled like warm breezes over the sea.
"Shall I sing for you?" Sansa offered, ignoring the insult.
Viserion stretched his long neck, scales glimmering cream and gold in the torchlight. I had rather see sunlight than hear more of your noise. It hurts my ears.
"And repairs the damage to your neck." Somewhat, anyway. It had taken her but a few minutes to save Ser Olyvar's crushed arm, and mere seconds to stitch her skin back together each time she gave blood to a weirwood tree, but the dragon was another matter. Something in his nature fought her healing song, as if she were trying to mix oil and water. It had taken weeks to staunch the worst of the damage and coax the flesh to begin mending itself, and the effort both tired her and aggravated the dragon.
Sunlight is all I need, the dragon growled.
"No, Viserion," Olyvar commanded, iron in his voice. He could not hear the dragon's part of their conversation, but it was hard not to notice when a dragon flexed his claws and bared his teeth.
"We're trying," Sansa pleaded. "The queen fears that you will fly away and never return." Or start eating children, she thought, careful not to let the dragon overhear.
It was hard to convince the queen how much the dragon hated the darkness, given that she did not know Sansa was a skinchanger. Before they left Dorne Sansa had been unsure whether she should reveal her ability to Queen Daenerys, but Princess Elia, Prince Doran, Princess Arianne, and Olyvar were all dead set against the idea. Targaryens were very possessive of their dragons, even when they had dozens of them, and the Mother of Dragons had only hatched three. Informing Daenerys that an outsider could speak to her dragons better than their mother could did not seem prudent.
Sansa was still mulling over the problem a few weeks later. It was a rare sunny day, the clouds in the distance more white than grey as she sat on her terrace, stitching away in silence. She had not wanted company today; the rest of her ladies were doing as they pleased in their own chambers or out in the city. Brienne of Tarth was happily occupied in the training hall, as were Olyvar and his squire; Gilly was off with Lady Toland, nursing little Sylva.
It was mid-afternoon when Olyvar and Edric Dayne returned, reeking of sweat and steel. It was not the first time Sansa fervently wished that the pyramid's baths were less crowded at this hour, nor would it be the last. After making their courtesies Olyvar and Edric made for the terrace pool, Sansa averting her eyes until both were submerged.
As usual, Edric finished first, drying himself off and dressing quickly before running to fetch appropriate clothes for Ser Olyvar. They would be dining with the queen tonight, as they did once every fortnight or so. As Sansa's fingers grew stiff and her eyes began to tire, she set her needlework aside, pleased with her progress. Within seconds Buttons hopped up on her lap, mewling and rubbing his cheek against her hand as he begged for pets.
"How is Lady Brienne?" Sansa asked, scruffing under the cat's chin with her fingernails. Though she and Lord Robett had reached an understanding, she much preferred being guarded by her sworn sword, and missed Brienne when she was busy training.
"Overwhelmed with squires," Olyvar said absentmindedly, his eyes closed as he floated in the water. A clout of dark linen preserved his modesty, but he was otherwise bare, as he would be if he swam in Dorne. His golden brown skin was lighter on his chest and arms than it was on his face and hands. Faint glimpses of muscle appeared when he moved his long limbs; dark hairs sprouted from his chest and chin. "Deziel is helping her show them disarming techniques; he said he needed the exercise."
During the journey south from King's Landing, Brienne of Tarth had taken every chance to spar with the Dornish knights and squires. As time went on, she began correcting the squires' mistakes, making them repeat moves over and over and over again. By the time they reached Meereen, the Maid of Tarth had somehow become the unofficial master-at-arms whenever the knights were too busy or too exasperated to deal with their squires themselves. If she was not guarding Sansa, Lady Brienne could invariably be found in the training hall on the third level of the pyramid.
Of late Brienne had more pupils than just Edric Dayne and Perros Blackmont. Ser Barristan Selmy had nearly thirty boys he meant to turn into knights for Queen Daenerys, but spent most of his hours with the dozen who showed the most promise. The rest of the squires, slower, duller, younger, or all three, had begun drifting towards the end of the hall used by the Dornish. It was only a matter of time before Brienne started correcting their stances and footwork, seemingly unable to help herself despite her awe of Ser Barristan.
Ser Barristan was never less than courteous to Brienne, but his quiet disapproval seemed to hurt the Maid of Tarth more than if he had shouted at her. Brienne was too shy to ask the old knight for a spar, and he never offered, though he had sparred Ser Gulian Qorgyle and Ser Symon Wyl more than once, regaled Edric Dayne with tales of his famous uncle Arthur, the Sword of Morning, even recommended a book on knighthood to Perros Blackmont. That seemed very unfair to Sansa; Brienne was more true to the ideals of knighthood than many if not most anointed knights. She deserved to test her skill against Ser Barristan, not the Kingslayer. Ser Jaime Lannister was still terrible with his left hand; Brienne trounced him easily every time he showed in face in the training hall.
Sansa did not know what to make of the Kingslayer, and tried not to think about him. She could not forget his mocking grin the day he captured her, nor his hysterical laughter that day in the throne room with Queen Daenerys. What did Jaime Lannister mean, claiming he had saved her from Lord Tywin? It was Ser Olyvar who had championed her in the trial by combat, Ser Olyvar who had swept the cloak of his protection over her shoulders when the queen meant to have her poisoned. Ser Jaime wasn't even in the city, he had vanished the same night Lord Tywin died... a terrible notion seized her, gooseprickles rising up her arms. No, she was just being silly. Even the Kingslayer would not kill his own father.
There was a soft splash as Olyvar emerged from the water; Sansa looked away as he toweled himself off and began dressing with Edric's assistance. Sansa would not need to change until Gilly returned; after months of practice Gilly had become adept at helping her mistress change gowns quickly.
Buttons stretched, an immense yawn baring his sharp white teeth. His belly was full, yet he still felt the need to hunt and chase. A loose ribbon proved just the thing, Sansa dangling it over his head while the tomcat batted at it gleefully.
Now properly attired in a silk surcoat blazoned with his golden snakes, Olyvar took the chair beside hers, his lips twitching as he watched Buttons roll about on his back, trying to catch the ribbon with all four paws.
"Princess Sansa?" Lord Edric Dayne said as he emerged from the solar, now carrying a pair of tomes. Sansa looked up, favoring the squire with a smile. "Ser Barristan spoke to his squires about chivalry today. Would you care to hear what he said?"
"I believe you have reading to do, squire," Olyvar said, one eyebrow raised. "I swore to Lady Allyria that I would not let you slack in your studies." Edric cast a pleading look at Sansa; when she shook her head, he did as he was told, taking a seat halfway across the terrace and opening his book with a sigh of disappointment.
"Barristan the Bold indeed," Olyvar muttered, opening the book Edric had brought him.
"What is that you're reading?" Sansa inquired, eager to change the subject. Olyvar's eyes lit up; he scooted his chair closer and held the book up so she might see the pages.
"Remember how I hired a scribe to translate the books Nymeria's mother gave her?" Sansa did remember; among the Rhoynar artifacts looted from the ruins of Sarhoy had been a pair of tomes written in old Rhoynish, distant ancestor to the dialect of Rhoynish spoken in Dorne. "This is the first one he completed; it's a treatise about why Sarhoy should build more temples of learning like those in Chroyane."
"Like the Citadel?"
"Like a dozen Citadels," Olyvar replied, flipping to a page with an illuminated map of the Rhoyne, each city marked by a drawing of a horned turtle. "There are perhaps a thousand novices and acolytes in Oldtown, drawn from across the Seven Kingdoms. But the Rhoynar taught scholars at almost every temple to Mother Rhoyne; there were three temples in Chroyane alone, Sansa! And more in Ny Sar and Sar Mell, in Ghoyan Drohe and Ar Noy. The author boasts that each temple had thousands and thousands of books, texts from Valyria, from Ghis, from Yi Ti, even from Oldtown!"
On and on Olyvar rambled, Sansa occasionally asking questions. It was good to see him enjoy himself for once. Tending a dragon was hardly the most calming of tasks. Nor was arguing with Aegor as he did whenever they dined with Queen Daenerys. Sansa bit her lip; she hoped dinner tonight would be calmer than usual.
The dinner began peacefully enough. Olyvar escorted Daenerys to her chair at the head of the table before taking a seat at her right hand, and Aegor escorted Sansa to the chair across from Olyvar's before taking his own seat at the foot of the table. It was the oddest thing, being the only person at the dinner table who did not have silver hair. Olyvar's hair was a darker silver, his locks turning to waves once more as they grew back, but Daenerys and Aegor had fine silky hair of same pale bright silver as their crowns, their pale angular faces possessed by some unearthly beauty. Even Ser Loras Tyrell could not hold a candle to the Prince Consort.
And yet... when Ser Loras handed her a red rose she thought her heart might burst, but Aegor's smiles did not even make her tingle. Not that he smiled very often during dinner. The first course had barely been cleared when Aegor brought up some new law, Olyvar inquired as to how and why the law had been made, and they were off. The Lord Hand had been trained in the principles of governance since birth, Ser Olyvar trained not at all, yet somehow, every single time the queen hosted them for dinner, it was all they could discuss. They debated over the merits of a council that led as opposed to a council that followed, when a wise king should avoid war or seek it out, and so on and so forth.
Daenerys interjected rarely, content with watching the battle of wits as though she were presiding over a joust held in her honor. Sansa listened, considering each man's arguments and how they compared to what she had seen at Winterfell and at the Red Keep.
It was strange, how ardently Olyvar spoke. He had been raised to rule over nothing; the very idea of Prince Oberyn pushing him toward the throne filled him with abject dismay. Lady Meria Sand did not share his qualms; she had been practically giddy over the thought of hiding in plain sight, making friends and forging alliances right beneath Cersei Lannister's nose. Lady Meria was less pleased by the notion of Daenerys Targaryen benefiting from her hard work, but she at least had more subtlety than Prince Oberyn.
If Olyvar were to become king... Sansa's tummy flipped. I could be his queen. Once the thought would have sent her into raptures of delight, as it had when she was first betrothed to Joffrey. Then she was a silly little girl, who dreamed of nothing more than wearing gorgeous raiment as lords and ladies begged for her favor.
Oh, she knew there was more to it than that, but the duties of being queen seemed much more distant, unreal. Bearing heirs meant daydreaming of golden haired babes, not contemplating the bloody battle of childbirth. Running the household meant imagining armies of servants in fine livery, not considering how much time and effort it would take overseeing the work of hundreds and hundreds of men and women.
Had Cersei Lannister overseen the servants of the Red Keep? Sansa searched her memories, trying to remember if how often the cats had seen the queen meet with the steward, the chamberlain, or the other head servants. It had not been often. Now that Sansa thought of it, Queen Cersei did the absolute bare minimum, only checking on their work when some issue annoyed the queen.
Sansa glanced at Daenerys, who was sipping a flute of persimmon wine as she watched Aegor and Olyvar bicker over the proper way to handle treasonous lords. Daenerys did not supervise the servants either, so far as she knew; she left that to a seneschal under Aegor's command. But... at the same time, Daenerys was very engaged with her people. She rode through the city frequently, attended council meetings, held court once every week or so, presided over the many, many religious festivals of the many different gods her people worshipped... from what Olyvar had heard she commanded her Unsullied herself, devising the strategems which had won her Astapor, then Yunkai, then Meereen.
Daenerys is a king, not a queen. How had it taken Sansa so long to realize the truth right under her nose? Sansa could no more imagine Daenerys happily presiding over ladies-in-waiting and supervising servants than she could imagine Aegor sitting on the Iron Throne.
Sansa glanced at Olyvar, now gesturing emphatically as he defended the right of heirs to keep the lands of treacherous sires, rather than the entire family being attainted. Somehow she could not imagine him sitting on the Iron Throne either. I am chasing daydreams, Sansa scolded herself. Olyvar had taken her under his protection because he was a true knight, not because he was choosing her to be his queen. He had said as much when he swore not to exercise his marital rights until she came of age.
Her sixteenth nameday was just over a year hence. Would Olyvar try to claim his rights then? Or would he offer to annul their marriage when they returned to Westeros, as he had shortly after Daenerys miscarried? The sailors down on the docks said there was a new High Septon now, one that did not bow to the Lannisters and their whims. If the marriage was annulled for lack of consummation, she could go back to Winterfell. The very thought made her heart ache.
And yet... she would not be able to stay at Winterfell, not for long. Robb would choose a new husband for her, some bannermen needed to secure his throne. Sansa might find herself in a northern keep, but she might just as easily find herself sent to the Riverlands or the Vale, hundreds or thousands of leagues from Winterfell.
Sansa frowned. Rickon was already betrothed to Lord Manderly's younger daughter. She could not imagine Arya surviving the stiff propriety of the Vale; Robb would likely find her a husband in the north so he could keep her close. Perhaps a Mormont would suit, they favored warrior women, but no, Lady Maege had only daughters, and her grandchildren were far too young. A Karstark then, or an Umber, who would not look askance at a bride that could defend herself from wildling raids. Robb was unlikely to favor the Riverlands for his own betrothal, not with Uncle Edmure as the Lord of Riverrun.
The Vale, then, would be most likely. If Robb did not wed some Royce, Redfort, Corbray, or Waynwood maiden, it would fall to Sansa to wed one of their brothers. Bronze Yohn Royce had visited Winterfell a few years past; she knew all three of his sons. Ser Andar Royce was already married, his brothers Ser Robar and Ser Waymar were both dead, one perished in the south the other in the far north. Not a Royce, then. She did not know the lineages of the other most powerful houses of the Vale; any man she wed would be a stranger.
Meanwhile, the man she was currently wed to sat across from her. Ser Olyvar was no stranger; his voice and facial expressions were as familiar as those of her siblings.
"—a royal progress is not a waste of time. How can you begin to know a lord unless you see him in his own keep?" said Olyvar, indignant.
"Why not summon them to King's Landing?" Daenerys replied, shrugging. "A man is more like to tread carefully when he is away from the seat of his power."
"Visiting lords on dragonback would be far easier than riding for weeks with a host of lords and ladies," Aegor observed, thoughtful. "King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne—"
Sansa studied Olyvar thoughtfully. He did not answer to the name Aegon Targaryen, but it was his all the same, as was the blood of the dragon. One day he might survey the Seven Kingdoms from dragonback, but that day was not today. There was time to consider how she must do her duty.
Writing such an introspective chapter is so hard, y'all. Thanks as always to my main beta PA2 and to Myra and Geeky for also taking a look at the hot mess outline/early draft.
Can't wait to hear what you guys think! :D
NOTES
1) I made up the hair style traditions. Fashion has been used to send messages for thousands of years; why not use hair styles for the same purpose? Cersei often wears her curly hair down in canon; let's pretend she always has a small portion braided or otherwise pulled away from her face using golden ornaments with the rest of her curls left loose.
2) The temples of learning built by the Rhoynar are inspired by the universities built during the Islamic Golden Age. Oh my god, y'all, their knowledge of medicine was some of the best in the medieval world! Why? Because Islamic physicians collected medical texts and synthesized knowledge from across a wide variety of cultures.
3) The incredible stasis of Planetos really doesn't make sense. As such, I decided that losing a large percent of the population to long winters is one of the causes of stasis. Another cause? The Valyrian dragonlords repeatedly crushing their rivals and destroying their accumulated knowledge. I headcanon the destruction of the Rhoynar as being akin to the burning of the library of Alexandria but on a much more devastating scale. Nymeria and her followers preserved what scraps they could, but an immense amount of knowledge/expertise was lost in their flight from Essos.
The ONLY college in Westeros being the Citadel makes no fucking sense. There should be dozens of universities of various sizes endowed by various lords and ladies. Before 1500 there were over eighty universities in western and central Europe alone!!! England was the weirdo outlier for *only* having Oxford and Cambridge!
4) Medieval ladies did not spend all day sewing and singing and looking pretty. They had a lot of duties when it came to running the household; a lady was expected to know the basics of most work done by the servants she supervised. When a lord was away from the manor a lady would run the keep in the lord's absence AND take charge of defending the keep if attacked.
5) I'm trying to be careful to avoid bashing Dany's ignorance. She didn't grow up in Westeros! She didn't learn all the tiny social cues that Olyvar and Sansa take for granted! Customs vary wildly across Essos, after all, and Dany wasn't in a position to set up a formal court until she conquered Meereen. She is trying to learn, but a lot of the courtesies and expected skills like needlework/singing/dancing seem pointless to her, compared to ruling her city. Which is understandable, but also... she really needs to learn the customs/traditions of Westeros if she hopes to someday rule there, even if she doesn't fully endorse or understand them.
6) Sansa doing very thoughtful analysis before dismissing her insights as silly comes straight from canon. At the age of 12, she (mostly) figures out the motives behind the Joffrey murder plot two months before it happens!
Ser Loras is a Tyrell, Sansa reminded herself. That other knight was only a Toyne. His brothers had no armies, no way to avenge him but with swords. Yet the more she thought about it all, the more she wondered. Joff might restrain himself for a few turns, perhaps as long as a year, but soon or late he will show his claws, and when he does… The realm might have a second Kingslayer, and there would be war inside the city, as the men of the lion and the men of the rose made the gutters run red.
Sansa was surprised that Margaery did not see it too. She is older than me, she must be wiser. And her father, Lord Tyrell, he knows what he is doing, surely. I am just being silly. ASOS, Sansa II
