Late January, 300 AC
"Your meal, m'lady," the serving girl said, setting a tray on the table.
"Thank you, Kella," Sansa replied. There was a steaming bowl of beef stew, bread with butter, greens, and a blood orange. Just like the ones Arya and I threw at Septa Mordane. Suddenly she felt ill.
"You may have the orange if you like." Sansa couldn't enjoy it, but at least Kella might. Most of the smallfolk at the hollow hill had never even seen an orange.
"It's not meant for me, m'lady," Kella replied. "The cook would have my wages docked or report me for thieving."
Before she knew was she was doing Sansa had crossed the room. The scent of citrus filled the air as she peeled the orange quickly, juice sticking to her fingers. "Here," she said, pushing the segments into Kella's hands. "Eat them now or hide them in your skirts for later."
Kella stared at Sansa like she was mad, but she shoved the segments in a pocket all the same before she scurried away.
Sansa stared at her sticky fingers. She was the blood of Winterfell, sister to a king, and her greatest achievement in months was giving an orange to a serving girl. At least at the hollow hill she had people to serve and comfort. Remembering the servants' names and treating them kindly was not the same. But what else could she do?
Sansa was washing her hands clean when her new maid returned. In the seven weeks since arriving in King's Landing, she'd had six maids. Shae, the seventh, had been dismissed by Lady Tanda Stokeworth for being impertinent. She was a pretty, slender girl, perhaps one or two years older than Sansa. Though she was not particularly skilled as a lady's maid, she was always full of gossip. Since Sansa could not spend all her time in the godswood riding along with the cats, she was happy to encourage Shae's wagging tongue.
"The small council is shouting about your brother," Shae confided, a wicked sparkle in her dark eyes. "Some page was talking about it when I took your gowns to the washerwomen."
Sansa's heart leapt into her throat. She took a sip of water, then another before she trusted herself to speak.
"Oh?" Sansa kept her voice light, almost disinterested. All her maids were the Lannisters' creatures, spies who would report any sign of treason.
"Lord Tywin met him in battle, and the Young Wolf thrashed him," Shae giggled. "The page said Ser Kevan was fit to choke, and Prince Oberyn started a fight with Lord Tyrell over his son getting captured."
"The Knight of Flowers?" The words came out strangled as Sansa fought the urge to whoop with delight.
"The same. Stark ransomed him for five thousand golden dragons, and Lord Tywin's signed a treaty. It's peace, m'lady, at least until after winter."
"Peace?" Sansa could hardly believe her ears. They'll send me back to Robb, to mother and Arya, I get to go home!
The moon shone bright as a pearl as Sansa made her way to the sept. It was the second moon of the year, and the waxing crescent cast pale silvery shadows on the ground. Sansa was not sure of her faith in the Seven, but she would thank them for Shae's news just the same.
Normally Sansa prayed to her mother's gods in the mornings. Today, however, she'd approached the sept to find Lady Margaery Tyrell and half the ladies of the Reach, and she had beaten a swift retreat. Sandor Clegane had laughed at her, but not until they were out of earshot.
Now the royal sept was blessedly empty, but for Clegane standing guard at the door. Candles shone at the altar to the Maid, warm light flickering against the pale marble. A faint perfume of incense lingered in the air; rainbows danced on the floor where the moonlight touched the crystals that hung in the high windows.
First she prayed to the Father, lighting a candle and thanking him for the just outcome of Robb's battle. Next she prayed to the Warrior, thanking him for giving Robb strength. She had just knelt before the Mother's altar when the door to the sept creaked open.
"Leave us," a woman commanded. Sandor Clegane grunted his agreement. Sansa could hear his heavy tread on the stone path as he departed.
Footsteps echoed off the marble as the woman walked across the sept and knelt beside Sansa with a rustle of skirts. Sansa kept her eyes fixed on the statue of the Mother, her heart fluttering in her chest. If I pray silently, perhaps she will leave me be. Long minutes passed, and Sansa began to hope she would escape unscathed. Then the hand closed about her wrist.
"I know what you did, you little bitch," the queen hissed, her voice twisted with hate.
The Mother was carved from marble, her hands outstretched in a gesture of mercy. The hand that grasped Sansa's wrist was anything but merciful, the nails digging in painfully.
"I took you in, treated you as a daughter, and you repaid my kindness with betrayal." Cersei tightened her grip. "You will wish you were dead by the time I finish with you."
"Lord Tywin has agreed to peace," Sansa replied, unable to keep her voice from wavering. Joffrey was a monster, but he was only twelve, only a boy. His body had broken upon the stones, a horror of bone and blood. Had his mother seen him lying there? It was almost poetic after what they had done to Bran. Sansa should be proud of what she had done. So why did she feel so ill?
"Your return was not part of the agreement." Triumph rang in Cersei's voice. Her nails pierced Sansa's skin, droplets of blood welling up. "Poor little dove, so eager to fly from her cage. You'll never go home. My father will find some Lannister husband to take your maidenhead and fill your belly with his seed. The Imp would have been amusing, but he's dead." The queen laughed.
"Unluckily for you, I've many cousins. Lancel would have been kind to you, and gentle if incompetent in bed, but the fool got himself killed. His younger brothers are around your age; far too innocent to be entrusted with a traitor. Perhaps Lord Tywin will give you to Daven. He's nearly thirty; long past time for him to break in a wife. Your brother's men killed his father at Oxcross, but I'm sure he wouldn't blame you." Cersei's eyes glittered cruelly. "Lucion is even older, and known for leaving serving girls with bruises when they displease him."
"What are you doing?"
Cersei rose to her feet, releasing Sansa's wrist. The Kingslayer stood in the door, the Hound behind him.
"Praying," the queen said coldly. "Why have you interrupted me?" Ser Jaime glanced at Sansa, his eyes narrowing at her ruby bracelet as a drop of blood fell onto the white marble floor.
"Tommen wants his mother," the Kingslayer replied.
With a sweep of her skirts the queen was gone, never looking back at Sansa. The Kingslayer hesitated in the doorway for a long moment, then followed his twin.
"That needs to be bandaged," Sandor Clegane rasped as Sansa stood, her legs quaking.
"I should finish my prayers first."
"Fuck your prayers."
With a rattle of armor the Hound strode down the aisle, picking her up with surprising gentleness. "You can pray after you see a maester."
"Not Pycelle," Sansa whispered, hiding her face against the cold steel breastplate.
The Grand Maester had been kind when he treated her for fainting spells, but after they killed her father…. Sansa still remembered his old voice creaking as he told her to undress. The bedmaid had had to hold her down so Pycelle could touch her all over to see if she was ill. Sansa shuddered.
"Not him," the Hound rasped.
It was plump Maester Frenken whose bandage adorned her wrist the next morning when the invitation came. Lady Margaery Tyrell cordially invited Lady Sansa Stark to join her for the midday meal tomorrow.
Sansa frowned as she stared at the sloping, graceful handwriting. What did the Tyrells want from her? Were they curious about Joffrey's death? Were they angry about Robb capturing Ser Loras? Sansa worried at her lip as she thought.
At last she sent her reply accepting the invitation. Sansa could hardly refuse the King's betrothed, and she'd had no company for months. Even if they hated her, Sansa doubted they would make her bleed like the queen had.
The man who came to fetch her the next day did not look like he hated her. He had an amiable face framed by a neatly trimmed beard and the same chestnut brown curls as Ser Loras, but he was much older, perhaps twenty-five.
"You look lovely, my lady. My sister awaits you eagerly," he said, taking her hand in his left. His right hand grasped a cane carved with vines and roses.
"I am honored to meet the heir to Highgarden," Sansa replied, wishing she had curtsied before Willas Tyrell took her hand. She dipped her head instead as the Hound followed after them. "How do you like the city?"
Willas laughed.
"In Highgarden we are surrounded by the scents of flowers and grass; the fragrances here are…" he paused tactfully, "less pleasant. Truth be told my father had intended to leave Highgarden in my keeping."
"Then why make the journey?"
"Why, to meet lords and ladies such as yourself," he said, winking. Behind her Clegane snorted.
By the time they reached the Maidenvault where the Tyrells were housed Sansa felt almost at ease. Willas talked all the way there, filling her ears with tales about his horses and hawks and his prize hound, who had just given birth to a litter of plump puppies before he left.
"Her name is Blossom, and she has the sweetest nature," Willas told her as they walked past the pair of enormous guardsmen who stood at the entrance to the Maidenvault. After a sharp glance from Willas the Hound joined them.
"I had a direwolf named Lady," Sansa said, forgetting herself. Willas frowned.
"A dangerous beast for a gentle maid," Willas said. Sansa bit back a sigh.
The Maidenvault was filled with music and ladies in fine gowns, and the finest of them all belonged to a maid who could only be Lady Margaery. Sansa felt very shabby indeed as she knelt before the future queen. Margaery's gown was a splendid green velvet, bedecked with golden vines, the dagged sleeves lined with cloth of gold. Her own gown was of purple silk, but it was far too short and her bosom was nearly bursting out of the neckline.
"Please, rise," Margaery said with a sweet smile. While Sansa rose to her feet Margaery pressed a kiss to her brother's cheek, dismissing him.
"Come," Margaery said, taking Sansa by the hand. "We are so glad to have you with us. My grandmother especially wanted to meet you."
Lady Olenna Tyrell was tinier than even Old Nan. Her face was wizened, her long white hair bound in a thick braid that sparkled with emeralds and golden vines.
"How good of you to join us," the old woman said, tugging Sansa down and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "We are sorry for your losses."
Sansa trembled, confused. Had something terrible happened to her mother? Her brothers? Not Arya, surely not.
"My- my losses, my lady?"
"Your grandfather, old Hoster Tully. Did they not tell you?" Sansa shook her head, ashamed at the relief that swooped through her belly.
"I met him only once or twice, my lady."
"I daresay some of my grandchildren wish they'd only seen me once or twice," Lady Olenna said as Margaery gasped in protest. "Loras for certain when I'm through with him. Your brother is to be congratulated on capturing him; my grandson always had more courage than sense."
"Ser Loras was very brave when I saw him joust."
The old woman looked at her sharply. "That would have been at the tourney held to honor your father becoming Hand. I hear the Mountain nearly killed my grandson until King Robert put a stop to it. Loras was quite vexed that your father didn't give him the task of hunting down the great lummox. But then, the Dornish have wanted Clegane's enormous head for twenty years, and they've had no more success. Have you met them yet? Prince Oberyn brought his whore-"
"-his paramour, grandmother," Lady Margaery corrected.
"Don't interrupt me," the old woman snapped as Sansa gaped. "At least whores have the sense to demand coin; paramours have to rely on promises. As if men's promises were worth anything. I'm sure the Dornish serpent made lots of promises to the dozen women who've borne his bastards."
"He only has ten, grandmother, and the four youngest belong to his paramour," Margaery corrected her. The old woman rolled her eyes.
"The serpent crippled my Willas, and yet ever since arriving in this smelly city they're thick as thieves. And now Willas has my granddaughter defending them." She sniffed with disapproval. "It's one thing to be allies, but quite another to be friendly with them. Truth be told I thought the Dornish would sooner go to war than support a Lannister king after that nasty business with Princess Elia. Those rumors about what Gregor Clegane tried to do… and killing the children was quite unnecessary. There was a Targaryen in my youth who became a maester, and there's always the Faith. Still, Lord Tywin never met a problem he couldn't solve with a sword or a bag of gold. I wonder how much gold it took to make Doran Martell forget all that blood. Do close your mouth, Sansa, you look silly."
Sansa obeyed, feeling rather like someone had hit her over the head with a mace.
"Lord Tywin is very rich," she said carefully. The old lady snorted again.
"Yes, so rich that he lets hostages run about in gowns that don't fit. Your bosom is half out, child. I suppose the gown was made before Joffrey died?"
Sansa nodded, trying to hide her nerves beneath a calm smile.
"A very queer business, that. All anyone will say is that Meryn Trant was paid to kill the king, but who paid him? Lord Baelish, I'm told, but how would he profit by the king's death? And why have him shoved off the ramparts? Trant wasn't known for his wits, but even so. I don't suppose you saw what happened?"
"I- I-" Sansa stammered. I killed him and he deserved it, yet I feel guilty all the same.
"You're frightening her, grandmother," Lady Margaery said reproachfully.
"Hmph. A wolf should be less skittish of roses." Lady Olenna glanced at Sansa's bandaged wrist. "Though I suppose one is cautious when one is used to dealing with lions."
At that moment the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a roasted suckling pig, and to Sansa's relief the old woman became preoccupied arguing with her gooddaughter, Lady Alerie Tyrell.
"You must excuse my grandmother for her bluntness," Margaery said, resting a gentle hand on Sansa's arm. "At her age she refuses to spend time on courtesies. I hope you will not find us all so overwhelming."
Margaery proved almost as talkative as her grandmother, and far sweeter. She went on and on about the beauty of Highgarden, the pleasure barges on the river, the paintings that hung in the gallery, the gardens and banquets and musicians.
"You must visit us someday, Sansa," Margaery said as they nibbled on lemon cakes while listening to a very loud singer.
"It sounds lovelier than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms," Sansa replied hesitantly. Roses await you, but beware the thorns. "But I doubt the Lannisters would permit it."
"We shall see," Margaery said, her eyes twinkling.
Sansa was breaking her fast the next day when a seamstress arrived to measure Sansa for new gowns. "By order of Ser Kevan," the seamstress said, but Shae shook her head behind her back.
"The old Tyrell woman said something to him in the yard," Shae told her when the seamstress was gone. "Asked if Casterly Rock was so low on gold that hostage girls must go about half naked."
And so when the Hound escorted Sansa to dine with Prince Oberyn's paramour she wore a new gown of ivory damask. The invitation had come as less of a surprise after Lady Margaery's. The Tyrells and Martells were two of the greatest houses in Westeros; of course they wished to take the measure of the only Stark in King's Landing.
The cornerfort where the Dornish were housed was far smaller and less grand than the Maidenvault. An enormous orange banner with the scarlet Martell sun hung on the wall, the banners of other Dornish houses hanging to either side. Sweet-smelling rushes covered the floor, and spices perfumed the air.
Prince Oberyn's paramour, Ellaria Sand, was a graceful woman in her early forties. Her hair was black as a raven's wing, her eyes a dark lustrous brown. She was not truly beautiful, but something about her drew the eye.
"I hope our Dornish spices are not too strong for you," Ellaria said as the servants laid out the meal. "It is difficult to find a cook in King's Landing who does not skimp on the spices and leave the food bland, but some go too far the other direction."
Sansa nodded politely, looking around the table to try and remember all the ladies Ellaria had introduced her to. Sansa easily recognized Lady Nym, who it seemed was the second eldest of Prince Oberyn's eight baseborn daughters.
"Your dress is lovely," Sansa told her, feeling almost envious of the shimmering lilac robes.
"A gift from my Aunt Elia," Nym said carelessly, and Sansa nearly choked on her soup. Elia is alive? Sansa had heard no one speak of Elia and her children since her return to King's Landing, and she had long since given up hope that her frantic warning had done any good.
To calm herself, Sansa returned to looking around the table. The young woman in the green checks was Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. The quiet older woman beside her was her cousin Cedra, who was wed to Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep's master-of-arms. The ladies in yellow silk were Lady Larra Blackmont and her daughter Jynessa.
Sansa was trying to remember whether the lady from House Manwoody was named Coryanne or Corinna when Ellaria interrupted her thoughts.
"I hear you are a devout young lady. Prayer must have proved a great comfort to you so far from home and family. I pray to the Mother and the Maid for my daughters every morning."
Sansa blinked, surprised. Shae had told her that Ellaria worshiped some Lysene love goddess. Perhaps Sansa should be more careful when relying on Shae's gossip.
"It is a great comfort, my lady," she replied. "Forgive me for asking, but where do you pray? I pray each morning in the royal sept, but I do not recall seeing you there."
Ellaria smiled.
"Back in Sunspear my lord and I ride through the city every day, and we could not give up the habit here. We ride to the Great Sept of Baelor for morning prayers. Would you care to join us?"
Sansa bit her cheek instead of her spiced quail, coppery blood pooling in her mouth. Her eyes stung as she reached for her goblet and took a sip of lemonwater.
"I am honored, my lady," she said when she had recovered. "But I cannot. That was where- that was where they beheaded my father for treason."
Ellaria put a hand over her mouth. The whole table seemed to have fallen silent.
"In front of the sept?"
Sansa nodded, her throat tight. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. The Tyrells had brought the power of the Reach against Stannis, but the Dornish had brought no host at all.
"Did word not reach Dorne?" Lady Cedra asked. "The High Septon was outraged; the Imp had to make a substantial gift to the Faith before he dropped the matter. Of course, that was before the mob tore him to pieces." Lady Cedra looked at Sansa. "In the streets the begging brothers still condemn the profaning of holy ground."
Was this some trap to make Sansa speak against the Lannisters?
"I would not know, my lady. I am not permitted to leave the Red Keep. But-" a sudden thought seized her. "- I should dearly love to ride into the city to give alms."
Half the ladies made a cooing noise, as though Sansa was a playful puppy. Ellaria was not among them.
"I shall speak to my prince," she promised gently. "We shall see what can be done."
