SANSA IX
"The Red Keep was alive with sounds and colors, as the servants were preparing for the celebration feast for Lord Tyrion's first moon of tenure as Master of Whispers. They would have a large banquet, just as Lord Tywin had suggested to Father, and many lords and ladies both from King's Landing, the Crownlands and the Westerlands alike were in attendance.
There was Lord Jason Buckwell, Gerion's father, as well as Lady Tanda's eldest daughter Falyse and her husband Ser Balman Byrch, the golden-haired Lord Leo Lefford from the Westerlands, Lord Andros Brax, Lord of Hornvale, his son Ser Flement Brax from the Hand's tourney and his wife and their sons Robert, Walder and Jon, Haelda's mother and father Lord Tristan/Triston Wendwater and Lady Helaena Wendwater, Lord Porkeyn Dustin's eldest son and daughter, Roderick and Fanny, and many more. Sansa tried her best to keep track of all of them inside her head, spotting the small sigils on their surcoats and remembering their faces for the next time, the way her royal Mother would have, if she were here with them now.
"There are so many of Lord Tywin's bannermen here... Why all of this commotion for a simple moon's tenure as Master of Whispers?" Jeyne asked her, with her dimly Northern mind apparent as usual. She had grown up north at Winterfell, and despite having spent the past five years at court in the capital, her father's simple ways still stayed on inside her.
"Lord Tywin is one of the proudest lords in the Seven Kingdoms", Sansa explained. "Of course he will want to have as many of his bannermen as possible to come to see when his son is celebrated."
"But why is he being celebrated at all? I thought Lord Tywin hated the Imp", Jeyne whispered.
"Don't call him that here!" Sansa snapped. "Please, Jeyne. Try and not be so simple-minded. Whether he likes him or not, it is not for the Imp, not truly. It is for the pride of his house, and for his and father's rule together. He has not been Hand since the days of the Mad King. He wants many and more grand gestures from Father to be satisfied. You will see even more before end of summer."
"I am simply saying that Lord Wylis did not require a grand ceremony when he took over as Master of Ships on your father's council a couple of moons ago."
"Yes but Lord Wylis has been living here in the capital for years. The Lannisters have only just arrived still. And they are not among Father's most loyal bannermen. Hence they will expect grand gestures, ones that my royal father will have to consent to if he wishes to keep the peace", she said.
"Still..." she admitted, silently after a while. "I did wonder the same. I don't even understand why my Father would name him as Master of Whispers, if it had not been for Lord Tywin suggesting it.
Do you know that he does not even like the post of Master of Whispers?" she confessed to her friend, trying her very best to whisper. "He says that a good king in an honest land of subjects should have no need for it. And he does not even like Littlefinger as much as my Mother. Not truly. He annoys him, I think. Well, I know he does. So do most people."
She only almost allowed herself to giggle at the notion, but then calmed herself down again.
"A good Master of Whispers does not let himself be seen or heard too much, from what I understand..." Jeyne considered. "But this is a minor spectacle to be sure. Just as he himself is. He will not be hard to spot if he is to be doing the spying himself. He stands out like a mouse in flour."
Sansa had to keep herself from himmeling her eyes at her friend yet again. It was not lady-like to compare Lord Tyrion to any other animal apart from that of his sigil, which was that of the proud Lannister lion, no matter how small or deformed he might be. Especially not a mouse. Lions were cats, and cats ate mice.
Still, she could not expect much more from a Poole, she thought, as she imagined her friend had gotten the old wording from her commoner father. Sansa imagined the sight of a small mouse covered in flour peeking up from the ancient stone floors of Winterfell, where her cousins lived, and where Jeyne and Ser Vayon had come from before moving here.
"Indeed Jeyne, you are right. And you too, Princess", Wynafryda suddenly said, from where she sat to the right of them. "Stealth is the most important virtue for a spy. The Imp can't even find his way to the privy without people staring at him, though they pretend not to."
She had just come in, apparently. Sansa had barely noticed, even though she was so much taller and bigger than the rest of her ladies. Wynafryda Manderly, the plump mermaid of King's Landing...
She was late, again, as she often was,Sansa thought to herself. It was far disrespecful. Unbecoming.
True, the dinner would not begin in truth for another quarter perhaps, but still... Wynafryda was her lady-in-waiting, no matter how much older than her she was. It did not do for her to arrive to the dinner after the royal princess. Especially not now, that she had to be all that her Mother could not. Graceful. Sansa gave a meaningful but nonchalant look to Mordane, who in turn chided Wynafryda.
"You senseless young lady! Where on earth have you been? Does your father know about this?"
She scanned the room to further away to the left, by the windows, were Lord Wylis Manderly sat by the other great lords, council members and bannermen, for the moment chatting with Lord Gyles and not seeing how his disorderly daughter entranced into the dining hall.
"I would not expect him to have known about this, no", Wynafryda admitted. "I am truly sorry, septa. I merely needed to go to visit the privy before the dinner. It is expected to be a long one, after all, and I am haveing lady's troubles."
"Seven protect me", Septa Mordane sighed, as she wiped her handkerchief over her forehead, already dreading what troubles the willful Manderly maid might bestow upon her during the dinner.
And all of the other guests as well, for that matter, Sansa thought... Here were friends, both far and near, to be sure, but also many enemies of old that would need to be kept in place...
She saw the glances that some of the foolish Lannister lordlings sent towards poor Quentyn. Simply because he was a Dornishman, she guessed, or perhaps they were still jealous of his fostering here, at the capital, and the fact that their sons had not been chosen for the same purpose.
But why would they? She thought. Quentyn was a prince of Dorne, second in line to the throne of Doran Martell, after his eldest child and daughter Princess Arianne. Meanwhile, they were all just leisurely western lions, badgers and boars from lesser domains, bannermen to the Lannisters, who had sat and waited the war out. Her father's and Lord Robert's war. What gains could they, who had not even been fighting on the same side, hope to get from the king now? None, until further notice...
None, until the new Hand had nestled himself even further onto the grip of power, and demanded yet another council position for his own kin, she was sure. She had spoken to Robb about it, again, only mere days ago.
She looked to him now, where he sat to her left along the line closest to the windows in the dining hall, the sunshine of the late afternoon still gleaming behind him.
He smiled at her, a certain questioning in his visage. Are you okay? She felt him ask towards her.
I suppose, yes, she replied, blinking her eyes at him.
Are you sure? He asked, angling his face up into a slight scraunch. It is only a dinner for the Imp.
No no, I am fine, she promised. I only have a nervous tummy.
She showed butterfly signs with her hands and pointed into her dress, in as discreet a way that she could, with so many people watching her at all times.
Oh. Robb understood. Just take it easy then. No more than two cups of wine to drink tonight.
Yes, she replied, as she put the cup of wine away from her on the table in front of her. I will.
The harumming voices of lords and ladies around, quickly subsided when her royal Father changed his pose upon the dining room throne and raised his arms up to declare the commencement of the dinner. As ever, Father was dutiful, clear and concise in his words.
"My lords, my ladies, our dear friends from near and afar, I welcome you all to this dinner, held in the honour of our allies from House Lannister. We are here on this fine day of late summer to celebrate my appointment of Lord Tyrion Lannister to the position of Master of Whispers on my council, as well as his first moon of tenure on the post."
Everyone listened intently as the king spoke with his revered Northern gravitas. Some of them, mainly the westermen who had not come to the tourney, had never heard him speak before, and must surely be in awe of his voice, Sansa thought, as she looked on with admiration to her royal father, whom they called the Wolf King, now with the direwolves' presence in the capital perhaps more than ever before.
"Now", he continued: "Drink, eat, and be merry, for as long as the night will allow. We shall have nine of the finest courses to celebrate, and wine and ale aplenty for all to enjoy, as well as sweets, fine delicacies from beyond the seas, carriages of compott, and much else.
And whomsoever finds the almond in the saffron porridge shall have to rhyme on it, and do it well!" He declared, finally, to the shocked salves of delighted laughter from hen-like ladies and frolicking lords, surely surprised by such a merry ploy coming from solemn King Eddard Stark.
It was true, her father was severe and silent at times, almost bordering on dreary for any other man, Sansa thought, but he had it in him to show humour and hospitality as well, when the occasion and his mood was sufficiently calmed for it. Just now, or so it seemed, he had finally grown calm enough in the presence of his Hand, the Old Lion, as well as everyone else gathered before him, or perhaps rather from his recent meeting with Lord Robert, to show precisely such a merry nature. She was slightly surprised, but pleased for her father's sake. Even kings needed to jape at times.
...
The tradition of the almond in the saffron porridge was an old Northern tradition, for the old winter feast of lights, she knew. When the food grew scarce, but still plentiful enough to eat every day, perhaps in the second or third year or winter, the feasts of lights would commence, and hold on for at least another year usually, though she was uncertain of exactly in what manner.
At least that was what she had gathered, as being at least almost a child of summer herself, she barely remembered the end of winter in her most tender years of upbringing. And that was still down here in King's Landing, and not high up in the cold North, where Father had grown up, besides.
At any rate, when winter came, people would gather together what fine barley and oats they had, as well as their finest rice, if they had any, and spicen it with saffron, maple syrup and else, if they were lucky enough to find any, to make porridge with either water or milk, and then they would put a single almond somewhere in the great pot.
"And then whomsoever found the almond would have to rhyme to the old gods' honour, and pray for the coming of spring", Father's words were.
Sansa had always loved the way that word sounded. 'Whomsoever. ' It simply floated atop her tongue so elegantly. The most perfect beautiful and dignified word to use for a true and royal king. Or a true royal princess...
The tradition of the almond had also been used at least once or twice before in a joking variety at the court of King's Landing, as Grand Maester Pycelle had told her. Here, in the south, at the old Targaryens' court, it had been used first for the Master of Games, or Master of Revelry, and then later for the Master of Whispers, although it was supposedly tied to a myth of Maegor the Cruel having found one of his builders' eyes in the stew of his soup one day, as a revenge from the servants.
Sansa still shuddered at the horrible story, but the game of whispers itself nonetheless was fascinating. When one found the almond in the porrige, or the gilded cherry, or the single floating olive in the fish soup, or whichever condiments it was presented as in whichever version of the game, one had to come up with a secret as secret as one could imagine, and then try one's best to whisper it to the person near by so that they would only hear a distorted version of it, and then pass it along to the next person.
Thus the game of whispers would go on, for another person, and then another, all and all through a ring of chosen people present, until finally it went to the maker of the soup or the leader of the game. If that lord or lady could properly decipher the muffled words coming at the end and guess correctly as to what the first secret of the whispering had been, they would have won the game and the whisperer would be subject to shame or embarrassment. Sansa was terrified of ever finding the olive every time they had fish soup, but so far it had never happened. She supposed that the cooks did not want to embarrass them, or perhaps there had simply not been an occassion for it until now.
Her handmaiden Leyna had confirmed the truth of the story to her once, though, but said that it must have been long ago, long before her father took the throne, long even before the last years of rule of the Mad King, that the game had been played. At any rate, Sansa was always giddy with excitement and terror-mixed fluttering in her tummy at the thought of hiding such a secretive and embarrassing secret, trusting only in the muffling of the words themselves, and the minds and ears of more thick-headed and deaf-eared people than herself to jumble it up sufficiently.
When she was little, they had played a similar game once, just the whispering game but without the search for the olive, and everyone closed their eyes before so that noone knew who had begun to whisper, letting the secret travel from one to the other until someone laughed or misheard so much that the game was over.
That time, when they had been about seven or eight, she had confided in that she was besmitten from afar with Prince Viserys and wished to marry him, and later that she had the similar feelings for that ghastly hedge knight, however she could have seen anything in him, and then how she had stolen away with some extra lemoncakes from the kitchens that one time. Somehow, she thought that she had gotten away with most of it, but still the sensation tickled, as silly as it was.
...
After the king had made his declaration about the almond in the porridge, the guests began speaking and murmuring excitedly once again, as the very first courses of bread, salt and cheese, as well as fireplums, figs, grapes and pomegranates were all carried in to the hall by dozens of servants.
Sansa watched the lords from the westerlands and other places eat from the bread and salt, as the usual importance of the moment was commemorated. Father nodded with approval before taking a bite of bread and a pinch of salt himself.
After that, she looked around to make certain that she was not the first one to eat before digging into the bread and cheese. The taste was just as delicious as ever, and the creamyness of the cheese was to die for. They only had this particular kind of cheese perhaps every five or six days, but it was Sansa's favorite.
After a little while of nibbling on the appetizers, Sansa heard a giggle from her right and turned over to look at Wynafryda. She had begun laughing from a little bit of mashed fig dribbling down the corner of her mouth, apparently. That was when Sansa first sensed something strange about her.
"Have you been drinking?" She asked sharply, trying to keep it low as a whisper as she leaned in across Jeyne and towards her older friend.
Wynafryda made a hushing sound, and put a finger to her lips while the septa was looking away to their left, enjoying the cheese the same as the others.
"Perhaps..." Wynafryda said coquettishly, and then made to giggle a bit more again.
"Wine?" Sansa whispered, as Jeyne did her best to keep track of the conversation that was going on over her head.
"The very best Dornish wine in your royal father's castle", Wynafryda whispered back mischievously. "Only two or three cups, nothing more."
"We are not supposed to drink before the dinner!", Sansa said quietly, motioning towards the septa to their left once again, who was now speaking to the man next to them, one Lord Peasebury or other.
"Noone will notice. Everyone will be drunk soon anyway. Have some fun", Wynafryda said, clearly not bothered by her transgression.
"How did you even get ahold of it?" Sansa questioned. "My father's wine is kept under close guard in the kitchens before each feast. Are you a thief now as well, my lady?"
"Perhaps I know a little someone in the kitchens..." Wynafryda teased. "It is no matter, please Sansa. I simpled wanted to try it beforehand." She shrugged again, clearly unbothered.
Sansa himmeled her eyes, and then put her arms into crossways to show her dissatisfaction. She thought about telling the septa, but then thought better of it. If she was the one tattling on her, she knew that Wynafryda might try to put some of the blame on her as well, or else simply be a pain to her within the coming days. She decided to wait for her lady to oust herself by her own accord.
Unfortunately, as it seemed, the septa went on talking to Lord Peasebury with merrified intent, making Sansa first prune with annoyance, but then finally she let go of the situation.
"Just try and don't care about it", Jeyne said. "She will be punished for it soon enough."
"She is too clever to show it. She's never punished", Sansa said dismissively. "Just like Arya."
She tried her best to enjoy her own figs, as well as the crackers and cheese, and thankfully soon forgot about her roguish lady when the tastes hit her tongue again and her father's pipers began to play louder, signalling the true commencement of the dinner now at last.
Then, the servants came in carrying the first true meal of the evening. Quails roasted in honeyed chestnuts, barkbread with jellied red and black cherries, as well as pepperblack green leeks, along with the barrels of red wine and ale that most had been waiting thirstily for for quite some time.
"The first course", the herald called out as he presented it all in due fashion. "The previous Master of Whispers has had his well and proper use of little birds in times past", he japed. "May these fine fowels give now to our Lord Tyrion the plentiful wisdom he needs to serve and protect the interests of the crown!"
Applauds, happy cheering and some minor laughs were shot up from the crowd in response to the presentation. Sansa was not certain whether it was meant as honouring, or as mocking, but she hoped that the Lannisters would take it finely. Lord Tyrion certainly seemed to appreciate it, at any rate, as he began to dig in at the fine fat little roasted birds with an appetite worthy of a larger man.
It was the same symbolism as at the tourney, but where these were those had been living quails and partridges, these ones were already roasted. She looked to her father's hand to see how he would react, remembering the dissatisfaction of the last time at the tourney that turned into a minor farce.
Lord Tywin did not show any particular emotion, thankfully, as he nibbled on a leek and tore into his quail at the same time as as well. Father looked down at the herald, and pretended his best to seem and appreciate the jape before swallowing his first mug of ale. It will be a long night, she thought that she could almost hear his thoughts as he swallowed from the tankard in front of him.
Soon, however, the happy chatter of dozens of lords and ladies engulfed the very air, a motley murmur of comments about the food, polite questions and more tasteful japes, as Sansa tried her best to preserve her appetite through all the courses the way she usually did.
The next course was a thick and fine fish and saffron soup, along with garlic bread, buttered beets, all presented in style again as the herald spoke about the fine fishing waters of the city.
Sansa surpled her soup demurely and with a royal princess's grace, doing a perfect job of not making any noise, even though noone would have heard it even if she did. She saw that the Septa appreciated it, as she gave small glances of confirmation and praise. Jeyne tried her best as well, but fauntered when she restarted her spoonfuls after a little chunk of cod or other.
She is inexperienced, even now, but in time, she will learn how to do it all with grace, Sansa hoped, in perhaps another year or so.
Elsewise she would have to tell the septa about it. She would not let herself be embarrassed by her ladies on an occasion such as this, neither by Wynafryda and her drinking nor by Jeyne and her loud egregious surpling, and she would especially not let herself be shamed in front of the westermen, who already gave sour looks to poor Quentyn, Robb's friend who was the kindest soul in the world, if a little square-headed and dreary, she thought in secret to herself.
Sansa took her first little graceful taste of the wine as she thought about it all. How had her Mother's friends and ladies acted at their age? She was certain that they had been better, even at Riverrun, even long before her Mother was queen. And she had proof of it. At least Marla Piper, daughter to her Mother's Lady Selna, was conducting herself with the grace and dignity fit for a royal lady-in-waiting, where she sat, a little bit further away closer to the left corner of the room. Next dinner, she would ask the septa to sit herself next to her, she decided.
After the second course had been enjoyed by everyone, the floor in the hall was opened up for some light dancing and conversing. Sansa saw a young knight from House Brax. He wore a pale grey doublet slashed with cloth-of-silver, with the amethyst unicorn of House Brax pinned above his heart. Sansa thought back to her many lessons with the septa, searched for her memory, and concluded him to be Tytos Brax, the third brother, after Ser Flement and Robert.
As it turned out, she did not have to remember him, since he introduced himself.
"My Princess. What a fine feast His Grace has put together for our new Master of Whispers. I am Tytos Brax, son of Lord Andros and brother to Ser Flement."
He bowed deep before her, even though he was so much older than her. Sansa decided that she would let him. She saw that he still had his full head of long shiny hair, although his older brother Ser Flement was already going half bald in several spots along his famed unicorn mane.
"My lord, I thank you for your kind words", Sansa smiled back at him and bid him arise. "Did I perhaps see you at the Tourney for the Hand?"
"It is very possible, my princess. I was certainly there, though my brother took most of the glory, as is his right. He certainly captures the heart of many a young maiden in the tilts. Although he is wed, of course, as you may know..."
"Oh yes!" Sansa said happily. "To Lady Maria. He also has three sons, does he not? Just like your father."
"Yes", lord Tytos said gratefully, surely happy that she had any idea about their house. He must be impressed with her knowledge at her tender age, Sansa thought, and it did not take long until he said so.
"Your Grace certainly has a good memory of all of her subjects", he complimented gracefully. "I see that you have inherited the Queen's wisdom and grace, along with your royal father's strength and honour."
Sansa did not know if she had ever thought of herself as particularly strong, but she took the compliment to heart nonetheless. Sometimes people would compliment her in very strange ways, but she was beginning to become used to it, and to all the kind words they would say about father and mother, even those people who had once fought against them or decided to not follow them.
But, as father had said, the Lannisters were their allies now, father's and Lord Robert's war was a long time ago, and even then, they had not truly put up arms agains them, she supposed, only waited like cowards while the Mad King had ruled. Only Father and Lord Jon and Lord Robert had put up a fight against the Targaryens. And then her grandfather, Lord Hoster, of course, after Father and Mother had married, along with Lord Jon and aunt Lysa.
Still, Sansa would not like to be married off to a westerlander, she thought. And even if she did, it would not be to lord Tytos. He was handsome to a degree, for certain, and very polite and agreeable in his visure, far more so than his blustering older brother, but there were far better options out there for her. And so with a few other short words she simply thanked him for his attention, looked to her meal again and waited for the next lord or lady to come approach her.
It did not take long. All of them wanted to speak to her. Especially now, she thought, that her royal Mother was not present. Any and everyone who had wished to speak with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms now laid their salutations, well-wishes and warm greetings at her small piece of the table instead. Septa Mordane and Father had both warned her before that it might happen, but it was still a strange sensation.
She would have been far more proud of it, and more excited to be able to practice for her own future as queen or lady of a great keep, if it had not all been because Mother was still away at Winterfell, in another kingdom entirely, with Bran and Rickon. Sansa felt her presence hanging down heavy on her, as she felt an aching inside her heart, and she looked to where Mother would usually be seated, a few spaces away from Father on the dais, where now instead sat Ser Harys Swyft and his wife Lady Dorna in a place of high honour.
The next one to approach after Lord Tytos was Lady Lenessa Greenfield, along with her few-worded husband Ser Garth Greenfield, the Knight of Greenfield. They both wished to give exalting praise to the princess for her beautiful dress and to say how beautiful she was and how much she resembled her mother the queen. Sansa thanked them gratefully and took Lady Lenessa's hand the way she had seen Mother do hundreds of times before when she spoke to her lady subjects. Lady Greenfield almost looked shocked at the offered hand, but did not shy away from it, but rather kissed it most diligently, and gave even further praise and admiration to her, before leaving the floor for the next party to have their words with her.
After that came Ser Elwood, from House Hart, close by in the Crownlands, whom she knew from before, and his wife Lady Cervia. There was no mistaking him, from his unruly fladdering head of hair, or his intensely staring yet dutiful blue eyes. He wore a fine blue and white surcoat with his sigil of the three harts of House Hart caboshed in a diagonal band on a white bend on checkered dark blue and silver vair. He gave thanks for the invitation for the fine dinner, and wished to thank the king and queen, and to pray for the return of the latter. He took her hand from underneath and dutifully pressed his sweaty forehead against it, to which Sansa did her best to appear gracious in return. She had not expected the gesture, like with the previous ones as well, but she knew and saw in his eyes that he was a true knight and one who was and would serve loyal to her father's reign. She was grateful, and most of all grateful for the kind and reassuring words about Mother, and told him thusly.
As Ser Elwood and his wife took their leave, the room was made prepared for the third course of the evening out of [seven? Nine?]. And with that, the first of several great toasts.
Father arose from his seat to speak again, as the hall [ ] to listen to his words.
"My lords, my ladies, members of the council... We feast to celebrate the first moon of tenure of Lord Tyrion, our new Master of Whispers. It is a position which I did not always believe to be of utmost importance, in my younger days, but the years on my throne have brought me greater wisdom in the matter, and so now I am standing before you all with great respect for the need of someone with a quick mind..., someone with the wisdom necessary for the job..., and someone who knows his letters, and much else besides.
I was well impressed with such a wisdom during our stay at my forebears's home in Winterfell, when he made more use of our precious books and parchments than I dare say any Stark has done for a generation. With his help, my brother, Lord Benjen, and I, were able to improve on the castle's old glass gardens, as well as..."
Father harkled himself, doing his best to not become emotional, Sansa knew. A king must never show himself to cry in front of his people, never to show himself weak, not even when it came to his own flesh and blood.
Don't worry, Father. You have this. Just think of us all here now. Us in this room. Bran will be back soon. Robb says so. They will all be back. He knows so. He has seen it in his dreams.
Father cleared his throat once more, and then took to new wording.
"-... as well as... to create a new type of saddle for the... for the use of..."
Father looked to her, and then looked down on the floor again, and to his many subjects, taking up the thread once again.
"...For Prince Brandon. For that much I am grateful, and you shall know, my lord,... that House Stark... will always remember our gratitude."
He gave a short nod to Lord Tyrion, that was repaid in kind with a humbled and severe nod down.
"It is also from my understanding been Lord Tyrion's name day recently", Father continued. "I regret to say that it must have slipped past me in the many other matters we have handled of recent here in the capital. But, the fortnight has only just slipped past us. There is still time to celebrate.
And so... I suggest a toast for him, and for his coming service on the council. May he serve the crown well, and keep us safe and well informed, to keep the peace of the realm. To Lord Tyrion."
"To Lord Tyrion!"
Happy voices rang out here and there as people raised their glasses, echoing the toast, some true and glad in their tone, some more affected or severe. The Imp was still not universally liked, not even here in the capital, but perhaps he would become more so with his position, Sansa reflected, and the rumours about his characters might subsede in time.
"Do you think he will be a good one? Master of Whispers, I mean." Jeyne asked Sansa.
"I don't know. What does it require?"
"Don't you know?"
Sansa became annoyed.
"Of course I know. It will be the same as with Little-... As with Lord Baelish", she corrected herself, all too aware of the ears around her to use the undignified hickname for her Mother's childhood friend. "He will have to acquire some little birds. And then, I suppose... If we're lucky, there will not be much to report on. But if there is... " She thought inside her mind, considering the matter well, and then decided.
"He will not have had much proper use of his body, ever since he was little. Thus his mind will be the more sharper in contrast. He said the same to Robb when he first came here. And he does read a lot. More than anyone else at court. Well... Perhaps other than Grand Maester Pycelle. ... I think he will do well", she declared.
Jeyne nodded, agreeing with her as usual, as she would when she finally got the answer she wanted for her many questions. Sansa was grateful for it.
...
As the fourth course was being served, it was the Hand's turn to make a toast. Though it turned into more of a speech than Sansa had expected.
"Many years ago, I was Hand and in charge with ruling the Seven Kingdoms. For many years, I served under another king entirely. It was a different time. Great injustices and vices of cruelty, coming from a line of old and mad tyrants, those were the rule, rather than the exception, all across the realm.
But... we can all count ourselves most fortunate... that such a time is now long gone by", he said, trying his best to sound amiable in his naturally stern voice.
"...and now I dare say that I can consider myself in quite some luck once again, to serve under a king with wisdom, with true strength, with honour, and with decisiveness. To King Eddard. Long may he reign."
"Long may he reign!" The cheer went up loudly for the king and the Hand, as Sansa looked to Robb once more. He seemed a little surprised by the uplifting words from Lord Tywin, just as Sansa herself.
"Now", the herald called, "the fourth dish of the evening: Roast swan gilded and engroaved in parsley butter and herbs, along with roasted walnuts and smoked eel and lamprey pie all the way from White Harbour!"
...
After that, there came more speeches. Lord Buckwell spoke about the great harvests of the past couple of moons, speaking and boasting of how they would all be able to brave a ten year winter if they would so need. Sansa tried to do her best to be courteous, and listen to all the speeches with grace just like her Mother would, but she did not like the speech by Gerion's father particularly. Father did not either, she could tell. He did not like boastfulness, but most of all he did not like someone making light of something as terrible as winter.
Noone had known a ten year winter in living memory, perhaps not since the Andals first came to Westeros, nor since the Long Night. Sansa hoped deerly and innerly that the blessed Long Summer, that they were still in for yet another while, would last perhaps another half-year, then give way to a calm autumn and a moderate five year winter.
She had not thought about it much when she had been younger, even though she knew that Father often spoke of it with great severity and alware – it had always seemed like such an impossible far along thing to even think about, something that would never ever come, but their time up at Winterfell had changed her and made her suddenly aware of its importance. Winter is coming was their words, the words of House Stark. And yes, winter would surely come in time, she felt sure of it now. She only hoped that it would come slowly, and with care, and that it would not last altogether too long. And she hoped that the old gods, who were in charge of weather and wind, would not listen to Lord Jason's late summer arrogance. And she hoped most of all that her Mother would come home before the first snowflakes were seen above the rooftops of King's Landing.
Just as she was contemplating how her Mother might best try and oversmoothen the speech, had she been there for the moment, however, she heard her pebble-minded ladies begin to talk and ramble all too loudly beside her all over again.
Mother, Crone, grant me the icy patience of my royal Father to not have them all dismissed and sent back up North, she thought to herself as she looked once again to Septa Mordane. The Septa did not need much of a sign to see and hear what Sansa also saw and heard.
"Girls, will you please hold quiet!" The septa wheezed angrily to their way.
Jeyne and Wynafryda went silent at that, though Wynafryda continued to cough in a somewhat unladylike manner, and to crack open her roasted walnuts on her plate in a very loud and not particularly demure way, banging with her fist on the table.
Sansa finally snapped, to anger, even though she knew she shouldn't, and turned right.
"My lady Wynafryda, would you please be so kind as to cease your-.."
No. No, there was something wrong. There was something oh far so wrong now, she realized, with a sudden burst into her stomach. She went stiff, in all of her body, as she could only eke out the word.
"Septa..." Sansa's voice wavered on the trail of an utterance yet to come.
"What?" The septa turned around to look, with a barsk look to her face. "Wynafryda, would you please listen to the Princess and stop fooling around with-... "
Mordane went as pale as milk, and as stiff as ice as well.
Oh no... She is choking, Sansa realized, horrified. My eldest lady friend is choking on the walnuts.
Lord Jason stopped his murmured mumblings about the fine golden colour of the king's late summer wheat for a moment, as he wrinkled up and down with his dark twirled moustachioes. Then he saw it as well. And then they all saw, and all heard.
Everything fell silent, as the young lady daughter of White Harbour splurged and wreckled her way forward and back, coughing up red blood, or was it the deep red wine? Her stout figure was pushing itself back and forth, creverating against the table cloth in front of her, as she leaned forward to throw up. There came a litte red, but no more after that.
...
"The wine! It's the wine!" Jeyne [shouted/screamed]. "She went into the wine cellar on her own!"
And Sansa heard, as the single most pettisome, most annoying, most stupid and vexing noise imaginable was heard just underneath the hale voice of her best friend. She heard, with her wolf hearing, with her sweet Lady's hearing, as the silent and purposeless metal ping of a small piece of cutlery, or perhaps a little metal nail on the floor, being kicked aside by the spadelet shoes of one of her father's guards, making Jeyne's words – the most significant words ever uttered in Sansa's life up until this very moment – seem as unimportant as the chirping of a pretty northern bird drowned out by ping.
No. No no no, Sansa thought, this cannot happen. Wynafryda gets out of everything, all of her sins. She will get through this one as well, surely. She must so.
But she saw, and could only stand and watch in despair, as her friend was rapidly getting worse.
Wynafryda clamoured herself, she grasped and clawed at her throat, looked to Sansa and the septa and then to her father for someone to save her, but it was too late. She had doomed herself with her wine lust and vices, and now the Stranger would come for her, Sansa knew it in her heart even as the septa rushed forth to try and help her dying friend.
"Wynafryda!"
Her father, Lord Wylis Manderly's voice, was heard from the other side of the hall, far to the fore-left of them by the window seats as he began to rush forth to try and save his firstborn child.
Wynafryda was tearing up, her greenish blue eyes watering like [ , her pretty face beginning to turn red. She seemed as if her entire throat or stomach had been shut down. She jerked and clamoured desperately, clanging down the chandeliers on the table in front of her, the platters, the glasses...
Then she fell down and back, just as the septa caught her in her arms. But then the septa fell back as well, fainting, with Wynafryda still in her arms, both of them falling down onto Father's stone floor.
...
For yet another moment, a moment of insight, as they all came to the same conclusion and understanding, and as one or two deathly looks were exchanged in sweaty eyes shooting across the hall, all four- or five-score lords and ladies in the dining hall were silent.
Then, all seven hells broke loose.
...
Father vomited, Septa Mordane vomited, Sansa herself vomited, Lord Brax and Gerion's father vomited, spewing waves of at first deep crimson red from the wine and then more pink-grey puke from the food, all of it coming out of their hurling mouths like a forty-men waterfall.
She felt sick. She truly, truly felt sick with fear as she saw the blood-red wine spilling down on the table in front of her. Wynafryda... Why did she... Was... Was she... Did she know? I will die with her now. Won't I?
The Imp threw forward like a squashed-together red velvet cushion from where he sat on his little raised throne, red slash coming out of his little mouth and puddling down in a flush on the floor beneath. Robb coughed and coughed, standing half up-sided, clutching the hold of his chair and trying his best to smack both himself and Gerion on their backs to get everything out.
The only person in the entire room who seemed not to have lost his wits was Lord Tywin. Instead of trying to make a coughing of it to get out whatever amount of poison might have made its way into him, he arose from his chair like a bolt of lightning, a pitch-black stalwart figure as straight as a spear, to take command of the situation.
"GUARDS!" He shouted out, in as loud a tone as Sansa had ever heard him speak before, though none of the commotion in the room was quelled by the sudden furious roar.
"With me!" He brayed, his green eagle eyes wide-open and sharper than any steel, as the entire corps of guards veered, some suddenly, many surprised and swaying falteringly back and forth, almost dropping their swords and shields from the motion, but still they went.
Father looked around himself, to see what was happening.
Sansa saw the panic in his eyes for a mad second, as he saw his entire kingdom slipping away from him by a score of his own guards' boots shuffling forth on the stone floors underneath the grey-thibbled frust of his northern nose.
"NO! STAY!" He commanded, in his most powerful voice. "Do not leave your posts!"
"We are being attacked!" Lord Tywin seethed back at the king, furious, trying to make him understand the gravity of the situation with the intensity of his eyes, as well as showing that they were both on the same side in this. "We must catch the responsible before they have a chance to escape!" He continued.
Father was just about to object again, to make his guards stay, as they stood there, swaying on the soles of their feet, waiting between the command of their king, and the hand who had just roared at them, but before he thought of the castle itself, his reign, or anything else, he thought, as always, of them. The children. He looked to her, he looked across the room to his daughter, and thought of her.
"Sansa!" He gasped, his dark-bearded mouth ajar, his eyes wide open and searching. "Are you ill?"
Sansa did everything in her power to respond to the question at once, but she could not manage to get a sound stronger than a meek quease out from her lips.
It was the sound that a sleeping child or kitten might make if roused mildly in their sleep, before tucking their leg in another notch. She hated herself for it. Hated it, hated it, hated it, how the air inside her mouth just would not come.
But she was in shock, she realized. She could barely breathe. Perhaps she was being posioned as well. Perhaps she was truly about to die.
"N-... " she only got out, to the roaring crash and commotion of chairs being knocked over, people screaming and vomiting all around her, Lord Wylis crying over Wynafryda's lifeless body from his bursting heart all the way up to the seventh heaven where the gods lived/swayed.
"I-... I-... Father..."
She collapsed, onto the table in front of her, or to the chair behind her back. It felt hard upon her back, just before the world went black around her. It hurt."