Late January, 305 AC
"Your Grace?"
"In a moment," said Sansa.
Sansa gazed out across the sea, as she had since a servant flung open the many shutters, rather than allow the queen to do such a task herself. Waves rolled and crashed, pale foam cresting over deep green-black swells. The shores of Westeros were long leagues out of sight, yet she looked all the same, wishing Duskendale were not so far away.
She stood atop the Windwyrm, Dragonstone's tallest tower. Its walls were of black stone, its top wrought in the shape of a dragon's head screaming defiance. Within the dragon's mouth was the tower's highest chamber. It boasted a wall of windows looking west, their long frames carved to resemble the dragon's teeth.
At her feet, Holdfast whined, as if the hound knew her thoughts. He missed Olyvar too. Holdfast wouldn't touch any stick save the one his master had given him before he left, and which the hound was slowly gnawing to splinters. It seemed her lord husband had only just returned; how could he be gone again already?
It seemed like five years, not five days, had passed between when Olyvar departed at dawn and when he returned at dusk. Thank the Seven no one else dared enter the dragon's den. Sansa was able to greet her husband with a heartfelt embrace, almost overwhelmed with happiness to see him safe and whole, and in good enough health to sweep her off her feet.
Only after he had kissed her senseless did she notice the crown gleaming upon Olyvar's brow, a circlet of Valyrian steel set with square-cut rubies. Ser Daemon Sand had brought it with him from King's Landing, just as Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell had brought it from Dorne. How strange it was, to look upon the crown first worn by Aegon the Conqueror himself. Several other Targaryen kings had worn it too, until Daeron the Young Dragon lost his life and crown in Dorne. His bones had been sent home, but his crown had been kept as a trophy, locked deep within Sunspear's treasure vault.
King Aegon was still wearing the conqueror's crown when they met with Ser Gulian Qorgyle in their solar. As of yet, the master of coin was the only member of his small council. Ser Gulian was very pleased with his new office. He had not spoken of Sandstone in weeks, nor of visiting his father Lord Quentyn Qorgyle, whose seat he would someday inherit. Nor did he speak much as Olyvar explained what had transpired whilst he was away, of the brief battle with Euron Greyjoy and Rhaegal, and of the two days spent with Paul the Pious, High Septon of Harrenhal.
His High Holiness was duly grateful for Olyvar's defeat of the green dragon. He had readily agreed to the righteousness of King Aegon's claim to the Iron Throne, and set the crown of the conqueror upon his head whilst thousands of eyes looked on. Only after that did Paul the Pious inform King Aegon that whilst the faithful would support the overthrow of Tommen Falseborn, at present they refused to countenance any action against the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale, under whose protection they had thrived, heathen though he might be.
Nor was that all of it. Paul the Pious had had many, many questions for King Aegon, and just as many opinions on the work which would be required to heal the realm. There was a thick stack of parchments in Viserion's saddlebags which would require going over, later, when His Grace had time to review the petitions and proposals.
"Once we've taken King's Landing, perhaps," Olyvar said, with a weary frown. "And His High Holiness begged me to fly to the Eyrie. Lord Robert Arryn and his lady mother are still trapped atop their mountain, and running out of food."
"Aunt Lysa?" Sansa had not seen her mother's sister in years. When she last saw her cousin, the Lord of the Vale was but a babe in arms. "As the raven flies, the Eyrie is closer to here than Harrenhal, is it not?"
"It is," Olyvar agreed. "But the mountains are high and cold, and beset with the winds of winter, which blow so strong they send birds and dragons alike off course. A journey of two days might take ten, if the weather proves foul." Under the table, he took her by the hand. "Tarly draws closer to Duskendale every day. I cannot risk such a journey, not until after we have defeated his host."
"King Aegon is wise," Ser Gulian told her, stroking his chin before turning to look at her husband. "Did you say as much, to His High Holiness?"
Olyvar favored him with a grim smile. "I did. His High Holiness vowed to pray for our victory, and for the Father Above to judge Lord Tarly and Queen Cersei justly for their sins."
Her husband's smile faded once Ser Gulian left them alone. "Aegon, again," he groaned, his face in his hands. "Gulian has known me since I was a mere boy, why must he insist on such formality when we speak privily?"
"Perhaps he finds it difficult to switch back and forth?"
Olyvar snorted. "Perhaps. Why couldn't I have been named Aemon, for the Dragonknight? Do you know, as a boy, Aegon the Unlikely was called Egg? I swear, when Gulian calls me ay-gon, I feel as if I have egg-on my face."
Then it was Sansa's turn to snort as she suppressed a giggle. Her amusement soon turned to wonder when her lord husband handed her a small leather bag. Whilst Olyvar spoke of the Isle of Faces, she stared at the small white seeds she held cupped in her palm. That very night she had planted the first seed in Aegon's Garden, with no company save her lord husband, who bore silent witness to her joy. There were no weirwoods upon Dragonstone; she had not seen one since they left her saplings behind when they sailed from Sunspear.
And when they were finished in the garden... well. It was only natural that His Grace should wish to dine privily in his chambers in the Stone Drum, after flying all day. No one need know how quickly the king and queen ate, eager to be done so they might retire to bed. It was almost embarrassing, how much Sansa enjoyed her lord husband's attentions; even now, days later, her breasts still felt tender.
Alas, one night was all they had. The next morning he had returned to Duskendale, intent on giving Viserion as much rest as possible before Tarly came to battle. The she-dragon was amused by Olyvar's caution, and irritated when he insisted that Sansa check her for injury. She found nothing amiss, save for the scar that slashed across the cream-colored scales of the she-dragon's throat. The edges were inflamed, marked by small blisters. That did not surprise her; Old Nan used to say that soldiers and crones could foretell the coming of blizzards by the aches in their scars and the creaking of their joints.
Once Sansa had sung the blisters away, her lord husband left, leaving her in the dragon's den alone with her tingling lips and aching heart. Olyvar would triumph, he must. There was a fire in his eyes when he released her, his jaw set as he climbed into the saddle, where Ser Edric Dayne waited for his king in the pillion seat. That was several days ago; now Tarly and his vast host were scant leagues from Duskendale, beset by heavy snow. She could only pray more troops continued to arrive to swell Olyvar's host before it came to battle.
Outside the window it was snowing too, the world turning pale and cold. This was not Winterfell, but the sight of snowflakes whirling and dancing was enough to make her smile, as was the continued absence of her monthly headache. It should have come a fortnight ago, with her moonblood; she had never been so late before.
Sansa would have been excited, if not for her stomach's infuriatingly good behavior. Everyone knew that nausea was the foremost sign of seed taking root, yet her belly was calm as a windless day. If anything, she was as ravenous for food as she was for her husband. Not that a full belly seemed to help with how tired she felt of late, but that could not be helped. There was much to be done, and she had spent long enough lingering at the window.
"Kindly send a page to fetch Lady Jynessa," Sansa said, turning away.
"Of course, Your Grace," said Duncan Scales.
Whilst the queen daydreamed, enjoying the view from his solar, the steward had been working patiently, his quill scratching away at a parchment. He continued to work as Sansa gathered up her long skirts of silver damask and took a seat by the hearth, considering all that she must do.
As was her habit, she had risen before the dawn. Sansa had already bathed and dressed before the bells tolled six to mark the Hour of the Crone. After prayers, she broke her fast alone; none of her ladies shared her inclination to rising early. Ser Daemon Sand yawned as he escorted her down the steps of the Stone Drum, his white cloak swirling behind him, his steps slowed by the limp which would haunt him all his days. Sometimes he even needed a crutch, if he pressed himself too hard.
Were it not for the spike which had pierced Ser Daemon's leg, it would have been he who accompanied King Aegon to Duskendale, not Ser Edric Dayne. Ser Daemon Sand was the only member of the Kingsguard at present, but he could hardly protect the entire royal family by himself, even if he were hale and whole.
Really, Ser Daemon could not even protect Sansa by himself. When Ser Daemon slept and trained, Brienne of Tarth took his place. Much as she missed Ser Deziel Dalt, Brienne was as vigilant as ever, determined to keep her queen safe.
The Lannister redcloaks who came to Dragonstone with Lady Myrcella were all in the dungeons, as was Ser Arys Oakheart and most of his men-at-arms. Dragonstone's new men-at-arms were those who had served Ser Daemon Sand, or petty lords and knights across the isle. Brienne trusted none of them, and kept a watchful eye as they assisted her in guarding Queen Sansa. She also tested them in the yard, unimpressed by their skill.
Sansa doubted Brienne would rest easy until the Kingsguard once again had seven members. If Brienne had her way, they would be chosen solely for their skill at arms and their loyalty, not for their birth. Olyvar was not sure whether he agreed; at present he was more concerned with choosing the right men for his small council.
King Aegon was not the only one who must fill a myriad of offices. By rights, Dragonstone belonged to Princess Rhaenys, upon whom Olyvar had bestowed it until he sired an heir. But Rhaenys was far away, and Sansa was here. Someone had to set things in order before they departed for King's Landing. Olyvar could not do it, not whilst in the midst of fighting a war, so that meant the duty fell to her.
When Jynessa Blackmont arrived, she already held a ledger in her hand. When she opened it, the top of the page was already marked with the date, the thirtieth day of first moon. Thank the gods, Jynessa was decent with taking notes, though unfortunately she was far better with languages than with sums.
Sansa would have to find another lady-in-waiting to help her with those, unless she wished to solely rely on stewards and their scribes. Part of her wanted to, but it seemed like the sort of thing Cersei Lannister would do. Her mother Lady Catelyn had checked everything herself, relying on Shyra Cassel to help her, until she died in childbed shortly before King Robert came to Winterfell.
The household of Dragonstone was much smaller than that of Winterfell, but far, far larger than the one Sansa ran in Mele Nernar, where they enjoyed Empress Daenerys's hospitality. There were dozens and dozens of servants, and Sansa was supposed to know all of them, just as she should know what they did and where they worked.
When Queen Sansa descended the Windwyrm, it was with Lady Jynessa, Ser Daemon Sand, and her guards all about her. Below the steward's solar was a chamber where his scribes worked, toiling away at their desks. Duncan Scales seemed to have them well in hand, but could she trust him to hold Dragonstone when they left?
The steward had served as an apprentice scribe under Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. When Stannis Baratheon departed Dragonstone, the master scribe had become the steward, and continued in that office when the castle fell to the Lannisters. Ser Daemon had no complaints about his work, nor that of the other scribes. Lord Stannis expected them to do their work thoroughly, and to an exacting standard. The fief had prospered under his management, and that of his wife Lady Selyse, who scrupulously followed his instructions whilst he was in King's Landing.
When she reached the bottom of the Windwyrm, Sansa paused inside the open door so Jynessa could help her put on her pattens. The wind tugged at her cloak as she surveyed Dragonstone, drinking in the sight of snow falling over the last keep of the dragonlords. The battlements were ornamented with thousands of magical beasts both wondrous and frightening, and every building was of black stone, most of them shaped to resemble dragons.
The bustling kitchens resembled a dragon curled in sleep, with smoke and the scent of roasting meat rising from the nostrils. The Great Hall was a dragon lying on its belly, its doors set within the dragon's open jaws. The Stone Drum, the massive round tower which was the central keep, had windows in the shape of dragon heads; Sea Dragon Tower was topped by a dragon gazing serenely across the narrow sea.
It was like an enchanted castle out of a tale, but Sansa was already desperate to leave. As soon as Olyvar defeated Tarly, she was to join his host when they marched south on King's Landing. Her sister Arya was marching south too, with Ser Deziel Dalt and an escort of winter wolves. They were expected to reach Harrenhal any day; the High Septon had promised to send a raven as soon as they arrived.
For now, though, Sansa had work to do. She began with the cook, talking of menus while waves of heat fanned her face. The kitchens boasted three massive hearths for the commons, and a smaller one used only when cooking for the nobility. At one end of the kitchens one could find the scullery and brewery, at the other a passage leading to the Great Hall.
When done with the cook, she inspected the buttery, finding the butler had kept it well stocked with ale and wine. Sansa was less pleased with the pantler. He struggled to answer her questions, and blamed the baker for the state of the pantry. Its shelves should have groaned from the weight of many loaves, not stood half empty with the midday meal only a few hours away. Every servant required their daily food and drink, a gallon of ale and two pounds of table bread.
It was not the first time the pantler had been remiss in his duties. Gilly said he spent more time pawing at serving girls than attending to his work. Sansa dismissed him, bade the cook choose a better man to take his place, and bade the serving girls to inform the steward immediately should any other servants share the pantler's wandering hands.
In the undercroft below the hall Sansa inspected wheels of cheese, casks of salted meat, sacks of dried fruit, and jars of honey, while Jynessa checked the counts against those taken a sennight past. The counts were good, better than she would have expected. She had not known Dragonstone had thriving farms, let alone such rich soil that her small fields could grow not only plentiful crops of wheat and barley, but grapes and figs, hazelnuts and almonds.
Guards and a massive lock protected the spice locker, packed to the brim with the costly spices they had brought from across the narrow sea. A set of keys hung from Sansa's girdle, as they had since she became temporary mistress of the keep. With one of them she opened the locker, retrieving the spices the cook would require to make the dishes she had ordered.
When Sansa returned outside, the snow had stopped, and the keep was bustling with activity. Soldiers trained in the yard whilst servants hauled water from the well. In the distance she could see the stables and the kennels, and hear the sounds of horses whinnying and dogs barking. Hammers rang from the smithy, the tangy scent of steel heavy in her nose. She could smell sawdust too, from the buildings where carpenters shaped wood and coopers made barrels, and leather from the buldings where cordwainers made shoes and cobblers mended them.
"What's left?" Sansa asked, though she was afraid she already knew.
"The tannery, Your Grace," said Jynessa, wrinkling her nose.
Sansa frowned. Though the tannery lay far downwind, her keen nose could already catch the stink of urine, lime, and nightsoil used for tanning animal skins. Trying not to look petulant, Sansa turned her pattens toward the tannery.
I only have to inspect it once, she told herself as she walked. Queens could not be expected to do everything themselves. Once they were in King's Landing, Sansa would have more to do than just running the household. Though, what, exactly, she had not been sure, Queen Cersei rarely seemed to do anything unless it pleased her.
That made her nervous, so nervous that she set Perros Blackmont the task of reading about what other queens had done. When he shared his findings, Sansa felt very silly. She had already known what he had told her.
A queen was still a lady, and did the same things, just for the realm instead of a fief. A queen bore heirs for her king, and raised them to be worthy princes and princesses. A queen patronized the Faith, endowing motherhouses and bestowing gifts. A queen patronized artists and merchants and artisans, so as to make her court beautiful and support commerce. A queen interceded with her king, seeking to temper the justice of the Father with the mercy of the Mother. And, of course, a queen acted in her husband's stead at need, when he was ill or absent.
So when Ser Elyas Thorne, captain of the guard, came upon her halfway to the tannery, Sansa was not especially surprised. All the highest servants sought her out, when the king was away. It seemed Septon Ulf was at the gate, pleading for an audience, with a score of folk from the fishing village at his back.
It was not difficult to choose whether to hold court or visit the tannery. Whilst Jynessa Blackmont made for the queen's chambers, Ser Daemon escorted the queen to the Great Hall. There was a lord's door behind the dais which led to a private audience chamber, and it was there Sansa waited, considering what she knew of Septon Ulf.
The sept in the fishing village was small, barely more than a wooden hut with a dovecote behind it. The old sept had been made of stone, with seven sides to honor the seven faces of God. That sept was a ruin now, charred by the fires which had consumed it. Dragonstone's sept had met the same fate, the windows smashed, the altars and statues of the Seven burned.
Melisandre. The smallfolk made the red priestess's name a curse. They said she had used her beauty and her bloodmagic to ensnare Lord Stannis, turning him away from the light of the Seven to worship a demon made of shadow. Small wonder he lost the Battle of the Blackwater, they claimed, even a bastard king was better than a blasphemer.
When Ser Daemon Sand arrived from King's Landing, he had brought mummers with him to put on Strongspear the Squire, in hopes of winning the smallfolk to King Aegon's cause. To his confusion, it proved quite unnecessary. The smallfolk might despise Melisandre for winning Stannis for her red god, but they still believed his word when he denounced Cersei as an adultress and her children as bastards. When Princess Myrcella and her escort first arrived, a few men were bold enough to scream obscenities at her in the street, until Ser Arys Oakheart cut them down.
After that, Myrcella rarely left the keep. Ser Daemon said she spent her time much like any other carefree young lady of fourteen. Whilst the steward ran the household, Myrcella read, danced, and listened to music. Her collection of gowns was exquisite, as were her sets of tiles and cyvasse pieces which she used to regularly trounce her betrothed, Trystane Nymeros Martell.
Poor Trystane. Ever since Olyvar left for Harrenhal, she had barely seen him. His mother Lady Mellario said whenever he was not playing cyvasse with Myrcella, he was in his chamber, pacing, or galloping down to the fishing village without so much as a single guard. But she must worry about that later; she could hear Jynessa's quick steps coming down the passage.
When Sansa entered the Great Hall, it was with all the majesty of a queen, a herald's voice echoing through the air as he sang her coming.
"All hail Her Grace, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!"
Ser Daemon Sand led her in, followed by Jynessa and Perros Blackmont, Lady Nymella Toland, and Maester Pylos. A graceful crown of sunstones and moonstones rested upon Sansa's head, the work of the finest goldsmith and silversmith in Mele Nernar. How silly she was, to think Olyvar would give her up, would force her to return to Robb's keeping and wed some stranger.
Sansa's smile faltered as she stepped onto the dais, her back to the crowd. The Wall is cracked. Gods, why were there still no new ravens from her brothers? Maester Luwin had sent a raven from Winterfell to inform them that he had sent a courier after Robb, but there was nothing from Robb himself, nor from Jon Snow at Castle Black. Had the Others and their wights already crossed the Wall? Surely not, Jon Snow had slain a dragon, and Robb had never lost a battle—
Sansa turned, making herself smile as she sat upon the dragon throne. Lady Jynessa, Perros, and Lady Nymella stood at her left hand, Ser Daemon and Maester Pylos to her right. Ser Gulian Qorgyle would have been with them, were he not so busy dealing with the shipments of grain which should soon arrive from Pentos.
"You may rise," Sansa called. No one enjoyed being on their knees for long. Septon Ulf rose the quickest, brushing off his faded wool robes as he stood.
"May the Seven bless Your Grace," the septon said.
"Well met, Septon Ulf," Sansa said. "What brings you to King Aegon's hall?"
Septon Ulf paused, running a hand through his hair. It was a thicket of silver, whether from his age or from his ancestry she could not tell. Many of Dragonstone's smallfolk had pale hair or purple eyes. They liked to claim they had a drop of the ancient Targaryen dragon blood, but Maester Pylos said that was nonsense. It was more likely they descended from the servants the Targaryens had brought with them from old Valyria.
"We fear for the king's life, Your Grace," Septon Ulf finally said. "And for yours, my queen."
The smallfolk mumbled agreement, some louder than others. Ser Daemon drew closer to her, his hand drifting toward his sword.
"I am well guarded," Sansa assured the septon, confused. "What troubles you?"
"Abomination," hissed someone in the crowd.
Septon Ulf squared his shoulders, his face hard. "The bastard Myrcella, Your Grace. Bad enough that the Kingslayer lurks in the dungeon, fouling the air with every breath he breathes. Yet we hear that his daughter dwells in luxury, as though she were a trueborn princess, not an abomination born of incest."
"Myrcella is guarded day and night," Ser Daemon Sand told him. "Nor is she allowed to leave her cell."
"A cell, or a lady's chamber?" Septon Ulf spat onto the rushes on the floor, then turned his gaze on Sansa.
"The wrath of the gods is plain, Your Grace. The Harbinger was the warning, the bloody red comet that foretold the reckoning at hand. War swept over the realm, and plague and famine and fire soon followed. Now winter is come, and the Wall is cracked!"
Behind the septon the smallfolk nodded and murmured, their fists clenched, their eyes hard as Septon Ulf went on.
"Only blood can cleanse the realm of sin," he said. "The blood of the brother and sister who coupled against the will of the gods, and that of the monstrous children born from their union. Hear us, Your Grace, and take heed!"
"I hear you," Sansa said. Oh, why hadn't she gone to the tannery? Her skin prickled as she chose her next words with care. "Yet does not the Mother teach us to have mercy, even upon the vilest of sinners? Myrcella is but a young girl, newly flowered."
"Your Grace has a tender heart," the septon replied, shaking his head. "But even young girls can be dangerous, and a fair face may hide a rotten soul. You cannot trust a bastard, let alone one born of incest. What if she is a sorceress, like her mother? All men know Queen Cersei practices black magic, offering up her body to secure the favor of demons. She slew King Robert with the aid of a demon in the shape of a boar, just as she slew Lord Tyrell by summoning demons in the guise of northmen. The black cells echo with the screams of the innocent, whose blood she sacrifices for obscene rites."
Sansa stared at him. Cersei Lannister, practice magic? The very thought was absurd. Then she thought of the weirwood seed sprouting in the garden, and shivered.
"Queen Cersei will soon face the Father's justice," she said. "As will the Kingslayer."
Septon Ulf shook his head. "Your Grace, I beg you, see reason. Every moment you are in danger. Myrcella might be poisoning you even as we speak, just as the red priestess poisoned Lord Stannis. The instant King Aegon returns from battle, the girl and her father should be put to death, the abomination dying with the sinner whose incest gave her life."
Sansa shuddered, trying not to think of Gilly and Samrik, and of the monster in the shape of a man who once lived at Craster's Keep. "I will relay your words to the king," she promised. Septon Ulf bowed, looking placated, and the rest of the smallfolk followed his example, ducking their heads and smiling and murmuring blessings upon the queen.
It was almost the Hour of the Mother. Ser Elyas escorted her back to the Stone Drum, and when the bells tolled noon, Sansa was already kneeling before the altar in her chambers. Lady Jynessa and Lady Nymella knelt behind her, as did Gilly, their voices rising in a hymn to the Mother.
Sansa tried to focus on the prayer, but all she could think of was Ser Daemon. As soon as the smallfolk were gone, she'd sent him to double the guard on Myrcella's chambers in Sea Dragon Tower. She did not like the thought that some of the servants might agree with the smallfolk, and think to take matters into their own hands. Sansa prayed that the Mother would have mercy and help keep her safe.
Once her prayers ended, Sansa had little time to fret. She had invited guests to lunch with her, and must attend to them from her seat at the head of the table in her solar. Lady Mellario of Norvos had the honor of the seat at the other end of the table, flanked by an empty seat and by a Norvoshi lady who shared her mistress's taste for elaborate wigs.
Why all Norvoshi women shaved their heads, Sansa was not quite certain, and she was so busy she kept forgetting to ask the maester. She dared not ask the ladies, lest she insult them. Along one side of the table sat Jynessa and Perros Blackmont and Lady Nymella Toland. Across from them sat Maester Pylos, Ser Gulian Qorgyle, and her guards. Ser Daemon Sand had reached the end of his watch and would soon go to bed; Brienne of Tarth would begin her watch when his ended.
Sansa would have rather dined alone, truth be told, but it was important, to spend time with her lords and ladies, to show them they were appreciated. The menu was chosen with care to please all her guests. There was crab stew for Brienne, but it was spiced with saffron the way Lady Mellario preferred. There was blancmange for Ser Gulian, the rice gently poached in almond milk with slivers of tenders chicken. Alas, the poor man was suffering a toothache, and could not enjoy the soft loaves of white bread studded with raisins.
Lady Toland enjoyed the bread very much, especially with fresh butter dusted with cinnamon. Ser Daemon would be pleased when the sweet came, peaches in honey all the way from the Reach. Jynessa and Perros would gladly eat almost anything, so for them she had a singer who sang in High Valyrian.
While the singer sang, Gilly served. Her maid looked fresh as a spring morning in a grey gown trimmed with white. Upon her breast she wore Sansa's badge, a howling wolf's head, crowned with weirwood leaves. So did her son Samrik, who at five was too young to be a cupbearer, but just old enough to run messages within the Stone Drum.
"Is Prince Trystane in his rooms?" Sansa asked, when the little boy returned, his cheeks pink, his dark brown hair mussed.
"No, Your Grace," Samrik said, shaking his head. "I knocked forever and ever, and then a guard told me he was gone."
"Out riding again, no doubt." Lady Mellario's face was a cool mask. "My apologies, Your Grace. A raven came from Princess Arianne this morning. My granddaughters are ill, and she asks that I return to Sunspear at once. Trystane was not pleased to learn that he shall accompany me."
"I pray your granddaughters recover quickly, my lady. What ails them?"
"Grippe," Lady Mellario replied.
Brienne of Tarth winced, her spoon clattering against her bowl, and Sansa gave her a look of sympathy. Her father Lord Selwyn of Tarth was still recovering from the same illness, which had swept over the Stormlands and Dorne last year. Urging her to go to her father did no good; Lady Brienne refused to abandon her post, not when her queen had so few worthy knights. The maester, meanwhile, had perked up at the mention of grippe, no doubt eager to discourse on the subject as soon as he finished his mouthful of bread.
"When do you depart, my lady?" Sansa asked, to forestall Maester Pylos.
While Lady Mellario rambled about ships and the weather, Sansa silently urged Buttons to go to Brienne. He flopped on the floor beside her chair, mewling quietly while exposing his soft belly of ginger fur. When Brienne leaned a hand down, his rubbed his cheek against her palm, purring madly as she stroked his chin.
When Lady Mellario finished complaining of the annoyance of her maid losing her favorite wig, Sansa steered the conversation away from that of illness. Maester Pylos was happy to answer her questions about the peculiarities of the currents in the narrow sea, which somehow brought freezing cold waters from the Shivering Sea down to King's Landing in winter whilst Duskendale remained untouched. Perros Blackmont eagerly asked the maester more, leaving Sansa free to speak with his sister Jynessa.
When not assisting the queen, Jynessa was reading a book from the Dragonstone library which her mother Lady Larra Blackmont had recommended, but which she could not find in Mele Nernar. As Lady Blackmont was not much of a correspondent, Jynessa was eager to discuss it with her when they met again.
"Is there still no word from King's Landing?" Ser Gulian asked, scraping up the last of his blancmange with a spoon. His younger brother Ser Arron Qorgyle was also amongst the Dornish party who had remained behind.
"Nothing, ser," Sansa had to tell him. "But I received a letter from Princess Rhaenys late last night. She and Lord Willas expect to reach King's Landing early in third moon."
Ser Daemon Sand frowned. "So slow?"
"Lord Tyrell's knee troubles him," Sansa explained. "If riding jostles it too badly, he requires a day or two of rest."
Ser Daemon's mouth twisted; he took a deep sip of wine, and ran a hand through his sandy brown hair. It was strange to see such a dour look upon Ser Daemon's face. Usually the knight was in good humor, his dimpled smile as pleasant as his sky blue eyes. Not as handsome as her Olyvar, but still very handsome indeed.
Sansa wondered if he had a paramour. Or did he still pine for Princess Arianne, whose hand he once sought, or for the Red Viper, whose bed he once shared? To her confusion, Olyvar seemed unbothered by Prince Oberyn seeking out another lover whilst away from his lady Ellaria. He claimed Ellaria would not begrudge him such comfort, not when they were parted by thousands of miles.
Nor was Olyvar bothered by a knight of the Kingsguard having a paramour. The knights of the Kingsguard might be forbidden to take wives or father children, but women could drink moon tea, and men could not bear babes. Either way, a discreet paramour would not break Ser Daemon's vows.
"Besides," Olyvar had said one night, soon after they reached Dragonstone. "I can hardly deny a loyal retainer even half the measure of happiness I have found with my sweet lady." He kissed her shoulder as he spooned around her, running one hand down her spine—
Sansa's belly swooped, and a flush crept up her neck. A long sip of cool water helped with that, as did asking Jynessa about her new gown, which had inexplicably gone missing. Sansa had gifted her the cloth, a soft cashmere from Lhazar which draped wonderfully, and whose rich black shade flattered Jynessa's coppery brown skin. Jynessa's maid swore by the Seven that she had delivered it to the washerwomen, and they swore by the Seven that they had washed it and hung it out to dry, and then never seen it again. The women seemed genuinely baffled when Sansa questioned them; even skeptical Lady Toland could find no fault with their words.
Sansa would miss Lady Toland when she returned to Ghost Hill, just as Samrik would miss her great-niece Sylva, his playmate and milk sister. Alas, Lady Toland's old castellan had died, and she was most concerned with the reports from his successor. When Lady Mellario offered her a place on her ship to Sunspear, Sansa made herself smile at Lady Nymella's questioning look, wished her a safe voyage, and invited her to join the queen for supper, so she might seek a few last words of advice.
Soon after lunch, the bells rang the Hour of the Maiden. Sansa prayed much longer than usual, for she dreaded her next task even more than a visit to the tannery. She felt vaguely dizzy as Brienne of Tarth escorted her across the yard, her pattens squishing in the mud.
Myrcella's chambers were near the base of Sea Dragon Tower, the windows looking out upon Aegon's Garden. Ser Daemon had doubled the guard as she asked, pulling them from standing guard over the Kingslayer. The dungeons were far more secure than Sea Dragon Tower, after all.
"Good morrow, my lady," Sansa said when the guards let her into the room. Myrcella rose, smoothing skirts of crimson damask blazoned with golden scrollwork. Her two ladies-in-waiting were less finely dressed; they were mere Lannister cousins from Lannisport, though they shared their lady's golden hair and green eyes.
"Good morrow, Your Grace," the three ladies chorused, curtsying deeply.
"I asked to speak with you a sennight ago, Your Grace," Myrcella said haughtily. She did not wait for the queen's permission to sit, though she took the second best chair by the hearth, leaving the best for Sansa.
"I know, my lady," Sansa said, taking a seat. "I have been busy, I'm afraid. There is much to do, and little time to spare."
Myrcella fiddled with her bracelet, a golden band set with onyx stags and ruby suns. "I'm sure, Your Grace," she said, suddenly contrite. "But I- I want to write to my brother, please. I've never gone so long without sending Tommen a letter, he must be so scared."
Sansa hesitated. King Aegon had forbidden her the use of parchment, after Lady Mellario caught Trystane and Myrcella slipping each other scraps written in cipher. Neither Olyvar nor Sansa could blame them, but they also could not allow the former betrotheds to plot mischief.
"One piece of parchment," Sansa said. "And it had best remain whole. You may write whatever you please, though I shall read it before you send it, to be sure there is nothing which would do harm to my lord husband or his cause."
"Thank you, Your Grace, I understand."
Myrcella fiddled with the bracelet, biting her lip like Arya used to do. Gods, the poor girl was only fourteen. Her cheeks were plump, her chin and hairline lightly powdered to hide the pimples marring her otherwise pretty face.
"Your Grace..." Myrcella bit her lip again, so hard a drop of blood welled up. Then, suddenly, the girl flung herself at Sansa's feet. When she looked up, her eyes shone with tears, her golden curls in disarray.
"Mercy, my queen, mercy, I beg of you." She clutched Sansa's hand. "The fault is not mine, but that of my parents. How can I be blamed for my birth? I wouldn't blaming King Aegon for the crimes of his grandsire Mad King Aerys, I wouldn't, no one would. If my mother and father must die for their crimes, so be it, but let Tommen go to the Faith, he would not last a year on the Wall!"
"What of yourself, my lady?" Sansa asked gently. Myrcella brightened, her eyes hopeful.
"Your Grace, I am but a girl. I am not a danger to King Aegon, not like my brother might be, if evil men tried to use him. Trys and I love each other, as much as Duncan and his Jenny, or Lady Shella and her rainbow knight. Let us wed, as they did. Send us to the deepest desert of Dorne, or across the narrow sea, or to Meereen, to live as prisoners of the dragon queen. Anywhere, even Yi Ti, so long as we can be together."
"King Aegon means for you to join a motherhouse," Sansa reminded her, smoothing Myrcella's hair to take some of the sting from her words. "You will thrive there, I'm sure. We will not force you to become a silent sister; you might dedicate yourself to the Mother, the Maiden, or the Crone, as you please."
"The motherhouse won't want me," Myrcella said bitterly. "Septa Eglantine said so.
"
Sansa frowned. Septa Eglantine had raised Myrcella since she was a small child. The woman must have noticed something of the closeness betwixt Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime, enough to make her wonder at the tales of incest and bastardy. Yet none of them seemed to have troubled her, not until the fall of Dragonstone, when Septa Eglantine professed her shock at such depravity, and abandoned her charge when the poor bewildered girl needed her most.
"Septa Eglantine is but one woman; she does not speak for every septa sworn to the Faith," Sansa said firmly.
Then she thought of Septon Ulf, and shifted in her seat, uneasy. Paul the Pious made no objection to King Aegon's plan to dispose of Tommen and Myrcella Waters, but would all his folk heed his words? Good Queen Alysanne was almost killed by septas once, enraged that she carried the child of her brother King Jaehaerys. Myrcella wasn't carrying a babe born of incest, she was a babe born of incest.
"A moment, my lady," Sansa stalled. "I require a chamber pot." It was no lie; she did seem to require one more often of late.
When Sansa finished relieving herself, she found Myrcella still on her knees, stroking a golden veil. The cloth was embroidered with thousands of tiny golden stitches. Rampant lions snarled and showed their claws, rendered in exquisite detail. Yet something about the veil gave her pause. Perhaps it was the odd green shimmer that danced in the corner of her eye, or the tiny brownish-red speck of dried blood that marred one of the lion's claws, or the vaguely familiar scent which clung to it, some perfume she had smelled long ago.
"What is that?"
"My mother sent it to me."
Abruptly Myrcella called for her lady Rosamund. Whilst she took the veil and put it away, Myrcella poured forth the tale, her voice resentful and wistful by turns.
Her lady mother almost never wrote to her, not like Tommen did. When the rumors began to fly of King Aegon, Myrcella knew nothing about them, not until a ship arrived from King's Landing to carry her to safety. Alas, foul winds had driven the ship back to Dragonstone, and then ice had closed Blackwater Bay.
Not long before King Aegon landed, a trio of ravens had come. One carried orders for Ser Arys Oakheart. Queen Cersei forbade the Kingsguard to take Myrcella to Duskendale, saying the city was overrun with traitors. Dragonstone must hold; there could be no surrender. The other two ravens were for Myrcella. One carried the golden veil, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, the other a brief letter from her lady mother.
Queen Cersei's words had not made much sense to Myrcella. In one breath her mother said the castle would never fall, and in the next she bade Myrcella prepare herself for the worst. If King Aegon should take Dragonstone, Myrcella must hold her head high, and meet him attired as a princess royal, with a golden crown and a golden veil. The veil would protect her, Cersei swore. All Myrcella must do was say House Lannister's words as she knelt before Aegon, and she would be as safe as if she were in her mother's arms. No one would be able to hurt her, or even to touch her, but she must not use it until there was no other hope, for the veil would only work once.
"Stupid," Myrcella grumbled, looking even younger than her years. "It's a veil, not armor, and it itched when I tried it on. And anyway, nothing can keep me safe. My mother made sure of that when she betrayed Fath- King Robert. He would have had my head on a spike if he ever knew. So would Stannis, if he had caught me on my way to Dorne."
"They would have been wrong," Sansa said, taking her by the hand. "King Aegon will keep you safe, I swear."
"How can he?" Myrcella yanked her hand away. "All it takes is one septa to slip poison in my porridge, one knight who thinks King Aegon will favor him for slaying me. But if you let me wed Trys—"
"You know we can't," Sansa said quietly. "It would be a grave insult to the Faith. Aegon's lords would not abide it either, not when they recall the Blackfyre rebellions."
"Never," Myrcella insisted. "I'd never allow it. I have no right, no claim, and I'll declare it to all the realm. Lord Tarly and all the rest, they would have to abandon Tommen and my mother, if I speak against her."
"No," Sansa told her. "They wouldn't. Why should they believe you, when they would not believe anyone else? Their power depends upon refusing to see the truth."
"Shireen's claim is much better than mine," Myrcella said, without a moment's pause. "And she gets to live in exile. Why can't I?"
Sansa blinked, thrown by this new angle of attack.
"And..." Myrcella swallowed. "And Trys and I don't have to marry. I could be his paramour, and drink moon tea, to make sure my line ends with me."
Sansa stared at her, appalled. "Prince Trystane would never dishonor you so."
"I'm already irrevocably dishonored," Myrcella said bitterly, a tear trickling down her cheek. "Trys will listen to me, if that is the only way we can be together. If a scrap of happiness is all I can have, I will take it, be it in Meereen or Yi Ti. "
"But will you be happy?" Sansa cupped her cheek, trying to speak to Myrcella as she would speak to her own sister. "It is a hard thing, to live in a foreign land. Love is wondrous, but... once, I thought Joffrey was my one true love, the one all the songs promised."
"Joff was awful," Myrcella said with a rueful laugh. More tears trickled down her face. "Did you really kill him?"
"I did," Sansa admitted. She ignored the gasps of the ladies-in-waiting, and handed Myrcella a kerchief. "Though I did not quite mean to do it, and I am not sure I should have. He was twelve."
"Joff was a monster," Myrcella sniffled. She blew her nose. "Your Aegon will be a better king, if he's even half as brave and gentle as my Trys."
"He is not your Trys," Sansa reminded her with a pang of guilt. "He is Prince Trystane Nymeros Martell of Dorne. He has a duty to King Aegon, and to his sister Princess Arianne. Would you have him cast his entire family aside for your sake? And if he did, what if a day came when he regretted his choice, and abandoned you?"
"I... but..." Myrcella stammered. "They would forgive him, eventually, he said so. And Trys swore he would never abandon me, no matter what. Please, Your Grace, don't let Lady Mellario take him away!"
"I will think on all you have said," Sansa told her. "But I will not force Lady Mellario to leave her son behind. I will, however, command her to permit Trystane to write to you, so long as you remain upon Dragonstone. Beyond that..."
Her own eyes were wet; Sansa rubbed them with the back of her hand.
"I am sorry, Myrcella, truly. I do not know what else I can do."
When Sansa left, it was with a heavy heart. Myrcella had wept as if her heart would break, her nose running, her eyes red and swollen. When she asked that Trystane be permitted to lunch with her upon the morrow, Sansa gave her leave. When she confessed she was plagued by nightmares, and begged for a cup of dreamwine to help her sleep, Sansa agreed to that as well, though she bade Maester Pylos give her only a small cup.
As Brienne escorted her back to the Stone Drum, they passed Trystane in the yard. He smelt of horse and fish and rope; he must have just returned from the fishing village. Sansa gave him a nod and a wistful smile, and received a sullen bow in return.
Once in her chambers, Sansa took up her needle, her thoughts tangled in knots. Oh, there must be something she could do for them, but what? Princess Arianne and Lady Mellario would not countenance sending Trystane into exile, she knew that for a certainty. But if he remained in Dorne, how could he possibly keep Myrcella, even as a paramour? Even the pettiest of lords would balk at offering him their daughters, let alone the high lords who were surely already seeking to bind themselves to King Aegon by wedding a daughter to his cousin.
Supping with Lady Toland provided no further wisdom as to Myrcella, though Sansa did appreciate the lady's counsel as to selecting her own ladies-in-waiting. They were just finishing the sweet when Maester Pylos appeared. In his hand was a letter from Duskendale, sealed with parti-colored blue and black wax.
Sansa dismissed them both before opening the letter. Her hands trembled as she read, her eyes almost flying over the page.
The battle had still not begun. Lord Tarly struggled to arrange his scorpions and catapults; the weather was cold and snowy, with brisk winds that made Viserion unhappy. The dragon did not wish to fly; Olyvar barely managed to get her to survey Tarly's host before a gust blew them too close to the scorpions for comfort. If the winds fell, Olyvar meant to attack, but if the winds became worse...
Sansa called for Gilly, her mind made up.
When Sansa awoke, it was the middle of the night. Gilly stood over her, a candle in one hand and a warm posset in the other. Sansa drank it down, savoring the flavor of spiced wine and the rich froth of cream. She did not bother to get dressed; she was quite comfortable sitting on the featherbed in her shift, propped up against her pillows. Buttons yawned as he leapt down from the bed, sauntering for the door.
"Brienne is standing guard?"
"Yes, Your Grace. No one is to disturb you, save at dire need."
"Good. Let Buttons out, if you please."
And with that, Sansa slipped her skin.
Minutes passed like hours as the ginger cat trotted from her chambers to the rookery atop Sea Dragon Tower. The raven Olyvar sent from Duskendale was already asleep, wearied from his flight, so she asked the other Duskendale raven for his aid. His belly full of choice nuts and raisins, the raven gladly agreed, though she could feel his enthusiasm dim once they were out in the cold, with an east wind at their back.
Duskendale was hours away. Part of Sansa dearly wished to go back to sleep. Alas, she could not, not unless she wanted to be flung back into her own skin.
Instead, she made herself think about Duskendale. The city had fallen into Olyvar's hands like a ripe plum, thanks to the misrule of House Rykker. With the queen's blessing, Lord Rykker had raised his fines and taxes higher and higher, putting every penny toward lavish garb, fine wine, and other luxuries.
Unsurprisingly, this did not please the smallfolk. When Lord Rykker hanged a band of hedge knights who dared object to his bailiffs seizing their horses without cause, it had begun the first of many riots that broke out over the course of the next several years, all of which were brutally put down with the help of Lord Randyll Tarly. King Aegon was already planning to attaint House Rykker, though he had not yet decided what to do with Duskendale. That, like many other problems, must wait until he had dealt with Lord Tarly.
When Sansa shuddered, the raven croaked his annoyance at her for daring to ruffle his feathers. Sorry, she told him; she knew better than to disturb a bird in flight. Oh, but the thought of battle... how could she not shudder, when Olyvar faced such odds?
Lord Randyll was not Euron Greyjoy, arrogant and half mad. Lord Randyll was a high lord of fearsome repute, the only man to defeat Robert Baratheon. Even before the rumors came of King Aegon, he already had a fearsome host gathered at King's Landing, one which swelled even larger when Queen Cersei called her banners.
From the Reach came houses Graceford, Cockshaw, Hunt, and a dozen others sworn to Horn Hill. From the Stormlands came Fell and Errol, Trant and Buckler. From the Crownlands, close at hand, came Rykker and Stokeworth, Blount and Gaunt, Byrch and Hayford, Wendwater and Massey, Sunglass and Rambton.
And so when Lord Tarly marched from King's Landing, it was with fifteen thousand men at his back. His heavy cavalry was two thousand knights, with another two thousand light cavalry for good measure. Two thousand archers came with their bows, eight thousand foot soldiers with spears and pikes, and a thousand engineers who wielded catapults and scorpions and wildfire.
It should only take one dragon to defeat all of them, so the stories said. Sansa wished she could believe them, but she could not help thinking of Meraxes, slain by a single scorpion bolt to the eye. Yet how else was King Aegon to win the day, when his own host was so small?
From the Golden Company he had three thousand men, mostly infantry. The lords and knights of the northern Crownlands had almost doubled that as they trickled into Duskendale, some two and a half thousand men all told. Olyvar wrote her from Duskendale almost every day, and he had told her about them all.
For a moment Sansa could almost see them, kneeling before her lord husband to do him homage. Ser Crispian Celtigar, heir to Claw Isle, whose Valyrian steel axe bore a ruby crab on the pommel, the sigil of his house. Lord Staunton of Rook's Rest, his surcoat checkered black and grey with two black wings on a white fess. A dozen homely Brunes of Brownhollow with brown bear paws on their shields; half as many Brunes of Dyre Den whose sigil was a single bear claw wet with blood.
Then there were the many, many Crabbs. Old Lord Crabb wore pale green, blazoned with whispering severed heads, as did the knights he claimed as his brothers and sons. He did not claim the score of wild men who also declared themselves to be Crabbs, one of whom, a knave by the name of Nimble Dick, provoked a brawl over a game of dice within an hour of arriving.
From Maidenpool had come Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, newly returned from the North with five hundred freeriders at his back. Why, it was almost like a song, the gallant son come to avenge his father's death. Ser Loras had begged the honor of seeking out Lord Tarly during the battle to slay him, and King Aegon had granted him leave. Mostly, Olyvar said, because he doubted Ser Loras would obey him if he said nay, though Olyvar preferred that Tarly live to face trial and execution for his crimes. Sansa disagreed; she hoped Ser Loras got him.
Following behind Ser Loras had come another thousand men from Maidenpool, led by Lord William Mooton's nephews. King Aegon appreciated their service, if not their fervent love of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, whom their uncle Ser Myles Mooton had once served as a squire before dying during Robert's Rebellion. Ser Myles, Ser Walys, and Ser Jonah were mere youths, near her own age. They had been too young to fight in the War of the Five Kings, but old enough to be exceptionally angry that after the loss of his sons, their beloved cousins, their uncle Lord William had spent the rest of the war hiding in his castle.
"We still follow King Robb," Ser Myles had told King Aegon, when he asked about the Stark wolf banners flying beside those of the Mooton red salmon. "But when the rumors came of your coming, I begged leave to raise a host to fight the Lannisters, and the King in the North granted his leave."
But there aren't any Lannisters here, Sansa thought to herself. All the westermen were back in King's Landing, defending the queen regent. She hoped that did not anger the Mootons; seven thousand men was not enough, but still far better than six.
The dawn rose at her back as the raven drew closer to Duskendale, struggling to keep on course. It was snowing now, which made it harder to see, but the real trouble was the gusts of wind that buffeted them from behind. One gust almost flung the raven against a stone watchtower. He cackled angrily at the narrowness of their escape as he made for the edge of the town, beyond the walls, led by the scent of dragonstink and the sound of warhorns.
They found King Aegon's host massing beyond their camp. Drums pounded and horns blew, calling the men to battle. Some were on foot, some ahorse, but all moved with haste as they sought their places. Part of Sansa wanted to flee, to return to her safe warm bed. But how could she? She was a queen now, she could not shrink from battle like a little girl.
The wind roared in her ears as the raven fought his way toward the center of the host. The white dragon sat upon a little hill, and upon Viserion's back sat Olyvar. A helm covered his head, just as a suit of scale covered the rest of him, the Valyrian steel gleaming and shimmering with whorls and glyphs the color of flame. Viserion hissed as another gust blew over them, her wings folded tight against her back.
You again, the she-dragon complained when the raven landed at her feet. Bad enough to be out in this wind, must I suffer you as well?
I wanted to see the battle, Sansa told her as the raven nervously eyed the dragon's massive teeth. And no bird has eyes as keen as a dragon.
If the dragon had a beak, she would have preened. Oh, if you must.
Thank you.
A heartbeat, and Sansa looked through the dragon's eyes. She had not lied, they were sharper than a raven's, at least in darkness and in the haze of falling snow. And they were very sensitive to movement, darting to and fro—
"My love, why are you here?"
Sansa nearly fell out of the dragon's skin at the sound of her husband's voice. Desperately she clung to the scent of smoke and ash, the taste of a morsel of mutton caught between her teeth. Sansa had no way to reply, even if she could think of what to say. Olyvar could not hear the dragon speak with words as she did. He could sense Viserion's moods, catch glimpses of the things she thought of, but no more. Amused, Viserion dug her claws into the half frozen mud, whilst Sansa wondered how on earth Olyvar knew.
"If you're wondering," Olyvar said idly. "I could feel Viserion sulking about the wind and snow, until suddenly she was sulking about pine trees and wondering how a direwolf would taste." He lightly slapped the dragon's neck, well used to her toothless threats. "Ungrateful beast."
More drums pounded in the distance. She could feel the thunder of marching feet, see the banners flapping as Lord Tarly's host advanced. Her heart seemed to flutter in her throat, but both rider and dragon were tense and still.
"Damn him, damn him," Olyvar muttered. "'The wind will drop tomorrow,' Ser Symon said, 'I'm sure of it. Why, it could hardly get worse.'"
A gust screamed in their ears, banners straining against lances and poles. Snow fell from the clouds, thick and soft. The raven huddled under the dragon, pleased by her warmth, if not her smell.
"A little gust of wind is nothing to a dragon," Olyvar muttered, trying and failing to mimic Ser Symon Wyl's voice. "You're far too cautious, Your Grace, scorpions and catapults and wildfire, none of them could possibly aim in time, even if some mischance blew you astray. Oh, gods be good, here they come."
And with that, he fell silent. Like his men, Olyvar waited patiently as the enemy marched toward them, Viserion occasionally breathing flame into the open air as the men nearby cheered. The center was all infantry. The Golden Company were at the front, steady as a bulwark, supported by the crownlands infantry and by the archers. On the right and left wings were the cavalry, holding the flanks. On the left she glimpsed a Tyrell banner, three golden roses on green; to the right she saw the banner of House Wyl, a black serpent on yellow, biting at a man's heel.
Faster and faster the drums pounded as the enemy came on. To her confusion, almost all of them were afoot, save the officers who led the infantry forward. Where were the splendid cavalry of the Reach? She could not see them, not until the dragon's sharp eyes caught the gleam of knights on horses far away, clustered by huge scorpions and catapults. Why keep them in reserve?
Because he does not need them, she thought, horrified. His infantry alone outnumbered Olyvar's entire host. Once the melee began, Olyvar could not use his dragon for fear of setting his own men aflame. The sooner the hosts clashed, the sooner the dragon was useless, at least against the foot soldiers. And if he tried to go after the cavalry, he would have to worry about the siege weapons that defended them. Tarly did not realize that the dragon was already useless, grounded by the surging gusts of wind. If the wind dropped, Olyvar could scorch the knights from their saddles, trusting speed and agility to keep him away from the scorpions and catapults, but if it didn't—
The next time the wind screamed, it screamed above the sound of steel. Viserion added her voice to the clamor, shrieking as she breathed white-gold flame like a living beacon. The stink of blood and nightsoil filled her nose as men fought and died, the Golden Company holding firm against the onslaught of spears and pikes. She could smell mud too; the half-frozen ground was softening beneath the soldiers' feet, squishing and squelching as it sucked at their boots, pools of water forming in hollows as snow melted into slush.
Sansa could not tell how long the battle raged before Tarly's men began to lose heart. Gaps formed in their ranks as the arrows took their toll. With Tarly's archers held in reserve, not a single arrow touched the doughty men of the Golden Company, nor the wild Crabbs, ferocious Mootons, and implacable Brunes, or any of the other brave men who fought beneath the phoenix and dragon banners.
Suddenly, there came a ringing of trumpets, their brassy voices cutting through the snow. Hooves pounded like thunder as the cavalry charged, straight at the center of the host, straight at the dragon, sitting helpless on the ground. Banners flying the striding huntsman of Tarly led the way, aiming for a gap between the foot soldiers, a gap which was too small—
Sansa could not cry out, but the dragon could. Viserion screeched for her as they watched Lord Randyll Tarly trample over his own men. They were trying to clear a path, but the mud sucked at their feet, made them slide and slip as they scrabbled to get away. For every three men who fled in time, a fourth fell beneath hooves shod with steel, screaming as they died.
"Make way!" Lord Randyll bellowed above the screaming wind, waving his sword Heartsbane above his head. "The dragon," he shouted, pointing. "Get out of the way, damn you, before the wind drops and it roasts you all!"
As if in answer, Viserion blew a gout of dragonflame into the air, bright as the sun. The host surged around Lord Randyll and his knights like the sea in a storm, a wave of men—
Until, without warning, the wave broke. The foot soldiers were no longer making way for the cavalry, they were routing, running every direction except toward the dragon.
With a blast of trumpets Lord Randyll resumed his charge, intent on reaching the foot soldiers in gold. He was still in the midst of his own men when his horse slipped in the mud, whinnying and screaming as it sank to the knees in a pool of slush. Lord Randyll cursed, slamming his spurs into his horse, whose flank ran red with blood as it struggled to obey, wallowing helpessly in the mud.
Some of his knights rode on without their commander, but other horses were wallowing too, or screaming as they slipped and fell, some knights leaping free, some falling beneath their mounts. From the flanks poured Olyvar's cavalry, slow and inexorable as they picked their way through the mud, one wing led by Ser Symon Wyl, the other by Ser Loras—
And then Sansa was back in her own skin, shivering from the freezing cold water into which Gilly had plunged her hand.
"What?!" Sansa snapped, forgetting herself.
Drops of water sprayed across the featherbed as she yanked her hand out of the basin, sticking it under the covers and between her thighs to get it warm. Oddly, she was ravenous; the thought of rare beef and mashed neeps drowned in butter was enough to make her stomach growl.
"Lady Mellario is without," Gilly told her, her eyes wide and white. "They're gone, both of them, Prince Trystane and Lady Myrcella." A piece of parchment was in Gilly's hand; she handed it to Sansa. "This was on her desk, with her wax and seal."
Whilst Gilly frantically tried to tidy Sansa's hair, Sansa read. The letter was not for her, it was for Tommen. Myrcella bade her brother accept the awful truth of their birth, and surrender while he still could. He must understand that she loved him, she would always love him, but she could not find peace in the Faith, only with her true love...
"Forget about my hair," Sansa told her as the bells tolled two. "A bedrobe is enough, then show Lady Mellario in."
When Lady Mellario entered, she was not alone. Rosamund Lannister stood behind her, cringing. Her straight yellow hair was mussed, and there was a red welt in the shape of a hand upon her cheek, her eye already turning black.
"She will not talk, Your Grace," Lady Mellario said. Her wig was askew, her eyes red from weeping. "I already sent guards to the village, but they have not yet returned. My son is gone—" She raised her hand and turned toward Rosamund, who flinched.
"Enough." Sansa's voice was cool and remote, like a trickle of ice. "Please leave us, my lady."
Sansa sent Gilly away as well. She returned with a cut of cold meat from deep in the cellar, which Sansa pressed to Rosamund's eye and cheek.
"I pity them too," Sansa said, willing herself not to cry. "But you are not helping them. If Myrcella is recognized..."
Quickly, she explained about Septon Ulf, about the score of smallfolk who had come with him. All of them lived in or near the fishing village, and all of them knew what Myrcella looked liked. If they should find her before the guards did—
"They won't," Rosamund sniffled. "She has a disguise, a good one."
"Good enough to wager her life?"
Rosamund's lip trembled, her shoulders shook, and then she was talking, so fast Sansa could barely keep pace. Cella was clever, so clever. She had saved the dreamwine from last night, and at lunch, Trystane had slipped it in his mother's cup, and those of her ladies. Cella's chamber window was not so high up; a length of rope smuggled in by Trystane served to lower her to the ground, where she quickly hid in the bushes of Aegon's Garden.
All Trystane had to do was walk back out the door of her chamber and down the steps, telling the guards he had forgotten something in the garden. From the garden they had stolen to a postern gate, old and forgotten, overgrown with moss. They could not risk horses, but it was not so far a walk to the village, and from there to the docks, where a Braavosi captain had agreed to take them to Pentos when he sailed on the evening tide.
"It would have worked," Rosamund sniffled. "But Lady Mellario woke up too soon; she didn't drink enough of the wine."
"And thank the Seven for that," Sansa said sharply. "Return to your chamber, my lady, and pray to the Mother that the guards find them before anyone else does."
There was no time to lose. The moment the door shut behind Rosamund, Sansa commanded Ser Elyas Thorne to search every Braavosi ship in the harbor. Then, alone save for Gilly, she reached for a nearby gull, huddled atop a tree branch as he waited for the icy rain to stop. He did not like the thought of flying, not until Sansa promised him a feast of shellfish, already removed from their shells.
With the rain pouring down, there was no one on the road. The gull wheeled over the nearby bushes and trees for some time, until at last his keen eyes spotted two shadows sheltering under an ash tree's bare branches. The gull landed quietly above their heads, ruffling his feathers to shake off the rain.
"I can't," Myrcella whimpered. She was not holding hands with Trystane so much as clinging to him. Her golden hair was gone, hidden beneath a wig dark as a raven's wing, dark as the soft gown she wore beneath her cloak.
"I'll keep you safe, Cella," Trystane promised. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword; the other smoothed away her wig so he could press a kiss to her brow. "I arranged everything, just as we planned. The guards passed us by, didn't they?"
"But Trys, what if someone else is in the cove?"
"They won't be," Trystane soothed. "The captain said no one has dared use it, not since Lord Stannis hanged all those smugglers. The Lyseni are clever sailors, he'll get us to Mele Nernar safe and sound while my lady mother is still searching the fishing village."
Clever, clever Rosamund, Sansa thought grudgingly. What were they thinking? They had no knights, no guards to keep them safe. The Lyseni captain might take them across the narrow sea, but he could just as easily take all their coin and jewels and fling them overboard, or take them to Lys to be sold as slaves.
"I wonder..." Myrcella hesitated, then reached into the satchel she was carrying.
"Cella, no," Trystane hissed as she pulled out the golden veil. "Someone will see it!"
Someone was seeing it. The veil shimmered in the gull's vision, covered in swirling green glyphs. Or were they runes? Sansa was not sure, but either way, she did not like them.
"I can cover it," Myrcella insisted, draping it over her head. The gold made her green eyes shine even brighter; strangely, the dark wig seemed to suit her almost as well as her own curls. "It itches," Myrcella complained. She drew up her hood, and the veil vanished.
For a little while the two young lovers stood beneath the tree, hands clasped. As they exchanged chaste kisses, the rain began to slow, then stop. Carefully, they began to walk toward the road, not knowing that in the distance, Sansa could hear the thunder of hooves as the guards returned from the village.
"See?" Trystane smiled as he led his lady with one hand, the other stroking his wispy mustache as if he were a man grown. "Everything will be fine—"
Trystane paused, frowning, only just now hearing the sound of hooves draw near. His eyes widened, then he bolted back to the ash tree, Myrcella struggling to keep up as they ran hand in hand.
"They'll see us," Myrcella whimpered as they leaned panting against the tree.
"They won't," Trystane said, wheezing, trying to sound brave.
I am so, so sorry.
And with that, Sansa took flight, the gull wheeling high over their heads, screeching as only a gull can screech. There would be no ship to Mele Nernar. Someday perhaps they would thank her for it, once she thought of some other way for them to be together. There has to be one, she thought as she watched the children cling to each other. There must be, it is not fair.
"Oh no." Trystane watched as the guards left the road, following the sound of the gull. "Oh, my mother is going to kill me."
"No, she won't," Myrcella pulled him close and kissed him. "They can't touch us, they can't hurt us."
She tugged her hood down, throwing the golden veil over them both.
"Mother, please," she breathed. "Hear me roar."
And a roar echoed over the world. In the same instant a great whoosh of flame leapt up, then vanished, leaving nothing, nothing but the scent of ash, and the screaming of a gull.
...I am so, so fucking sorry. Um. Please comment below? I'm gonna go cry now.
See the author's notes for why that just happened, despite me really, really not wanting to kill Trystane and Myrcella. Also, as an apology for what you just read, feel free to run over to Ao3, my preferred hosting site, to enjoy some amazing art I commissioned from ohnoitsmyra of King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name.
Coming in a day or two: Queen Sansa Stark. After that, Myra is working on a lovestruck version of the above portrait where Aegon becomes Olyvar the instant he sees his lady wife
Thank you SO MUCH to Erzherzog, Wiverse, and GeekyOwl for helping me with the battle! As much as I love medieval history, the military aspect is really not my thing, and their assistance was invaluable. Especially Erzherzog, who took my very rough ideas/battle outline and turned them into coherent strategy with a timeline of events even I could follow.
Next Up
155: Cersei I
156: Arya I
157: Jon I
158: Bran I
NOTES
1) Viserion's injury is based upon a Marjolin ulcer, a type of skin cancer which can occur when a scar heals poorly.
2) Medieval people ate SO MUCH bread! Servants expected 2-3 pounds of bread a day, plus whatever meat, cheese, vegetables, and fruit might be available.
3) Running a medieval castle, or manor, took an exceptional amount of work. There was a veritable army of servants to manage, and the lady of the household was expected to do so whenever the lord was away. Of course, like with any lord, the level of rigor with which a lady carried out her duties could vary. She might leave much of the work to the upper servants, like the steward, or take a more involved approach to ensure things ran smoothly.
4) Sansa mentions the duty of a queen to temper the king's justice with mercy. This was a real part of queenship called intercession.
In some political situations, it was injudicious for the king to appear to yield or capitulate. A queen had the ability to intervene and moderate the king's policies without him losing face.
5) Medieval possets were a bit of an odd dish. Made from wine, cream, eggs, and spices, the hot drink curdled. One drank the liquid, then ate the curds that floated on top. I guess it was an acquired taste?
6) Houses Fell, Massey, Sunglass, and Rambton were loyal to Stannis in canon. Here, during the five year gap their lords were all replaced by the next claimant in line willing to declare for Tommen, giving the new lords a hefty incentive to support the crown.
7) I really, really did not want to kill Myrcella, and I originally planned to let her survive. But the longer I mulled it over, the more I came to the conclusion that it would cheapen the story to let Olyvar and Sansa graciously spare her, and take the throne without paying a price in innocent blood. Ditto for Trystane; House Martell used him as a piece in the game, and that had awful, unforeseen consequences.
Further, the fates of Cersei's children always had to rest in her hands, because ASOIAF heavily focuses on how the choices of parents save or condemn their innocent children. It did not feel right to have Myrcella randomly killed by a knight hoping for favor, or by some unrelated incident. In canon, Cersei's children are doomed because of Cersei's lust for power, and her refusal to let go of it. Golden crowns and golden shrouds...
In the show, Cersei almost poisons Tommen when it looks like the Blackwater has been lost, a choice which GRRM approved of. In Cersei I, we'll learn more about wtf Cersei was thinking with the veil, which was loosely inspired by the myth of Creusa of Corinth.
