Chapter Text
Jasper Arryn Artwork
Side note: I've received some comments saying I used ai art. I did not do that. I had a friend in an RP group I'm in who graciously agreed to draw Jasper for free based off his Frey/Lannister OC character. I'm sure you guys can see the similarities.
Disclaimer: There is some sexual assault in this chapter. Nothing beyond what GRRM might do, but I felt it fair for a warning.
Aegon
Outside the Small Council chambers, the city rejoiced and celebrated his return as befit a sovereign of the realm. Petals of flowers showered their column of Dornish spears and Gold Company soldiers as they were swarmed by the well wishes and tears of the smallfolk as they rode through the narrow city streets, as Rhaegar might have done if he emerged from the Trident. “AEGON! AEGON! AEGON!” They chanted him as a hero. “LONG LIVE THE KING!” However, within the stone walls of the Red Keep, the cheer was drained of any mirth. The cheering commons were replaced by solemn councilors weighed down by a duty as large as the realm itself. To his right side, Jon sat diligent and stern. Lord Owen Fossoway fussed over his parchment. His nose scarcely peered over it, as if threatening to devour his lordship. Uncle Oberyn held no office, but he had joined them as well.
If Uncle Oberyn had had his way, his paramour would have joined them as well. Aegon thought, aghast at the notion.
Only the seats of the Master of Law and Ship were empty. The former Aegon had yet to appoint, and the latter, Lord Redwyne, was off with his fleet hunting down the Greyjoy outlaw.
If only Varys was similarly absent.
Preferably a head shorter.
Aegon whiffed the noxious perfume coming from the end of the table. The eunuch was as far away as he could stomach, or he would gag. Perhaps they could make the table longer? Though Aegon knew it wouldn’t help a lick.
“You inherited a treasury flowing with coin,” Jon said. “The ill-gotten gains of Stark. And you complain of coppers?”
Lord Owen whitened. “But Lord Hand,” He protested. “The expenses of the Golden Company are not cheap, say nothing of the expenses of repairing King’s Landing! Or the king’s projects with the smallfolk, which House Tyrell has generously supported with grain as well as coin.” His chest puffed up with pride. “What I proposed is prudent and reasonable.” And I’ve gifted them a queen and the revenge they craved.
“And you think a tax increase prudent?” Uncle Oberyn smiled. “While we have armies in the field?”
“Never met a tax collector I liked,” Rolly said simply.
“Nor have many lords.” Uncle Oberyn agreed.
Lord Owen’s face was flushed.
Aegon chuckled. “We shall have to find other manners to keep our treasury full.” And turned with a smile towards his Master of Coin. “Loans shall serve, I think. Loans from the Iron Bank. And whom better than my Master of Coin to negotiate them in person?”
“But Your Grace,” Lord Owen’s voice was uneasy. “I’m needed here. I don’t think I could-”
“Of course you can,” Aegon insisted. “I trust no other to tend to these matters. Let another servant tend to the dusty scrolls.” His lordship’s chest puffed up a little as he vowed to oversee preparations for his departure.
And with it, the Tyrells would lose another voice whispering on their behalf. I shall not become ensnared by them as some puppet of Highgarden. It was certainly what they sought, and he lacked the strength to fend them off completely. I’m forced to peddle my birthright for steel and coopers. What choice did he have save to barter? Aegon mused tired with such deals especially with the war all but won. Any day new would arrive of Tarly’s victory. Aegon awaited the raven that would bring word.
Jon steered the discussion away from coppers and taxes towards the reports from the Stormlands. The gates of Blackhaven had opened to Ned Dayne when he slew her lord. Lord Beric’s widow, Lady Alyria, gave the order. “Pardons were offered, but some of the garrison chose the offer of the Wall,” Jon told them.
“A place for traitors,” Aegon said.
Storm’s End rotted still in pointless defiance, as Old Jon Mudd strangled them by land and sought to extend his fingers to the sea with the construction of earthworks to harass the supply ships.
Uncle Oberyn sported a sly, dangerous smile. “Your Grace,” He said. “I’ve spoken with Lord Aurane and he believes he could crush the Baratheon fleet in harbor with the ships under his command.”
“A foolish roll of the dice,” Lord Jon said. “An unneeded one.”
Hauldron cleared his throat and clutched some parchment between his stubby fingers. The wax crowned stag smeared over the parchment as it was unsealed.
“The Walls of Storm’s End are built to withstand the fury of the gods. You shall break upon them like water upon rock,” He read. “Hunger nor the clash of swords shall win you anything save the corpses of your dogs. Let them die, for their master refuses to bloody himself. Do you think me afraid? Our stores are deep and our walls are well manned. Come see the so-named son of Rhaegar and try if you will. You shall fail as all others have failed. Shireen Baratheon, the Lady of Storm’s End.”
And placed down the parchment with a chuckle. “Spirited girl.”
“Her father’s daughter,” Uncle Oberyn said.
“A distraction, nothing more,” Lord Jon said. “Ignore such a summons, Your Grace. It’s a woman’s folly.” What did she hope to accomplish with such bravado? Aegon wondered. Her war was lost when Stannis Baratheon perished. How many men did she truly command? A thousand? Mayhaps two if he was generous. Did Shireen Baratheon think him witless? She must be desperate to write this, and Aegon hoped the Baratheon whore drowned in her despair. If she jumped from some tower, they would all be better for it. An honorable woman would have already done so, but still she persisted. Lord Jon Mudd knew what to do with her when he breached the walls…
Aegon scoffed. “I shall speak with Lord Aurane. Let it not be said I was neglectful of the needs of the realm to bring this war to heel.”
If only I had one of my aunts’ dragons. I would have turned Storm’s End into a new Harrenhal. Then he would have fallen upon Tommen Waters and Lord Arryn, and the realm would be reforged once more. The last Aegon to sit the Iron Throne tried to birth them at Summerhall to bring about his reforms and bring their lords to heel.
If only he had succeeded, much would have been different.
Aegon didn’t have that luxury.
Only quill and swords remained to him.
In the Westerlands, Tyrion slaughtered his treacherous kin. The Greyjoys cowered on the seas from Redwyne’s fleet. The Usurper was likely dead at his aunt’s hands. The Stormlands was bowed, and Lord Tarly would soon deliver him Tommen Waters’ head. Everywhere he turned, it seemed he was winning. Singers and Septons alike spoke that House Targaryen held the favor of the Seven.
This is my destiny. Aegon knew it deep within his bones. My whole life has led to this moment.
The line of Old Valyria shall not perish in obscurity.
My mothers death would not be in vain.
“I shall not be bothered by some taunts from a woman.” Aegon declared.
And his lords bobbled their heads as they moved onto the matter of the wedding between Lady Sansa and cousin Quentyn.
Aegon looked up as the doors to the chamber creaked open. One of Hauldron’s scribes shuffled in and handed him some parchment before quickly retreating from their sight.
Hauldron’s great chain rattled as he stood, shuddering violently. “Your grace. My lords,” He said. “I bring ill tidings. Lord Tarly’s host has been shattered.”
Shattered? Aegon thought, dazed as he fell back in his seat. But we are winning?
“You mean he has shattered the pretender?” Aegon found his voice.
“No, Your Grace,” Hauldron said. “Thousands of ours have been slain, and the road to King’s Landing is now open.” A chill fell upon the room before shattering in hushed whispers and murmurs.
“How? Lord Tarly is a great soldier,” Lord Owen shrieked. “Seven save us.”
“Was,” Uncle Oberyn said.
Lord Jon grimaced in a half snarl. “Calm yourself, my lord. Show some gall.” He said. “We must send for the ten thousand swords outside Highgarden and combine them with our host of forty thousand, and then we shall drown them in steel. Our foes can’t be no more than thirty thousand, and they lack the strength to dislodge us from King’s Landing, nor cut off our supplies.” True words, Aegon knew, and yet he darkened at the thought of cowardice.
“’Tis true, my Lord Hand,” The loathsome creature spoke. “My little birds say they number no more than thirty-five thousand, likely far fewer.”
“We march against them,” Aegon declared and stood up. The debate was over. “We have enough to face them.” Rolly was grinning. He was the only one.
Aegon turned and faced Lord Jon’s guarded look without flinching.
“My king,” He said gruffly.
Aegon waved him off. “I shall not hide behind these walls. The thief has my sword. I shall reclaim what is mine.”
“As you should,” Uncle Oberyn said. “Connington’s far too cautious. That is how one loses a war. I suppose you would have experience in that.”
“And you aswell.” Jon replied tersely.
Uncle Oberyn’s lurched to his feet.
“Enough,” Aegon said. “I will tolerate no old quarrels.”
“Of course, nephew,” Uncle Oberyn’s hand fell over his right breast. “My apologies, my lord. Friends? We can share my paramour as amends.” He offered with a hint of mockery. “Unless that is not a dish you enjoy?”
Varys giggled, grating on the ears.
“Why, there are other ways to handle Tommen Waters. Craftier ways. A dagger in the middle of the night as he sleeps or a flight of arrows as he wanders his camp.” The room chilled as icy as a tomb. Somehow Varys always found new ways to make himself more loathsome.
“Vile creature,” Aegon muttered. “I shall win no war like some eunuch.”
“Of course your grace.” Varys said. “Forgive me for offering distasteful advice.”
“Mind your tongue or you’ll lose it.”
And with that, Aegon dismissed his Small Council for the day to reconvene on the morrow to begin preparations for their march. He journeyed to the royal sept where the smell of incense lingered in the air. The scent made his eyes water. Aegon’s knees were bent before the granite eyes of the Father, with Blackfyre’s tip resting upon the marbled floor as other Targaryens had done before him. Silence wrapped around him as he prayed. No songs hung over the pews or prayers of other men. He was a sept of one. To the Mother, he prayed for a son for his queen. The realm needed an heir, a Targaryen prince with silver hair and violet eyes. His seed had yet to take root in her womb, though he tried twice a day.
Arianne claimed it was because she was too ugly and widowed. “Do you think the Maiden will hold such a creature with any favor?”
And Margaery was hideous, if sweet. Aegon knew. She was gracious with her acts of charity from the slums of Kings Landing towards the lords and ladies of court. Smallfolk or noblemen it didn’t matter. Even if they cursed or gaped at her with hard eyes Margaery handled them with a lady’s grace. Septa Lemore said she had a kind heart. Yet it didn’t make it any easier to look at her or bed her.
Aegon closed his eyes when he bedded her or took her from behind.
It helped.
Septa Lemore also said these things take time, and she was likely right. “Look and find her beauty. A woman’s beauty lies elsewhere than her chest. Your mother would have said the same” Would you have mother? Aegon wondered. A hint of shame pierced his breast. And yet when the maesters wrote of his reign, they’ll write of Maimed Margaery . Aegon mused bitterly. Justice he asked from the Father. Justice for his mother and sister. From the Crone he beseeched for wisdom. Wisdom to guide the realm, bleeding from usurpers and brigands and evil men like Varys. Light streamed in through the stained glass, bathing him in rainbows as Aegon gazed upon the Warrior in his glory. Why would you let Lord Tarly fail against the bastard? Aegon wondered aghast.
The truth dawned on him.
“This is a gift?” Aegon whispered. “Isn’t it?” A chance for him to remove the taint from their dynasty. No longer shall they question my house and rule. When he drove Tommen Baratheon from the field as he did Lord Stannis, all doubts would be removed from the hearts of men.
I shall be their king.
And the realm shall be better for it. Aegon saw it so clearly.
To the Stranger’s unknowable obsidian eye, leering from the shadows Aegon thought of his father. May he rot in the Seven hells under your torment. Not even for Jon’s sake would he wish otherwise.
Later in his bed chambers, the air hung heavy with sweat and perfume. Aegon finished his coupling with his queen. “My king…Yes, my king,” she whimpered faintly in the silk sheets.
Aegon rolled off her form. A prince, hopefully, growing in her belly.
“A glass of wine?” Aegon offered.
“As it pleases Your Grace.”
He crossed the room to the pitcher and poured them some of the Arbor’s finest. Aegon turned around. Margaery had propped herself up with a mound of cushions, her brown hair messy from their lovemaking. She brought the glass to her lips and drank a sip.
“Will you wear the plush black velvets slashed with gold?” Margaery’s voice was demure. “For Lady Sansa’s Wedding? You would look most fetching.”
“Only if you wear the dress of ivory.”
“As my king commands. You know best.” She giggled and blushed like a maid. “I’m so happy for Lady Sansa and your cousin. I pray their union shall be fruitful.” She gasped. “Do you think they shall like our gift?” Only a woman could be distressed over such a small thing.
Aegon chuckled. “I think we shall be fine, my queen.”
Margaery sighed dramatically, falling back against the pillows and drowning into the silk. "I'm going to miss your cousins," she said, her voice faint. "I absolutely adore Princess Arianne. A complete delight, truly. And her... her natural cousins are rather interesting as well." She spoke cheerfully. "Elia is a spirited girl and Nymeria bless her is charming though too serious sometimes. And Tyene... Tyene is sweet as peach ."It made him taut as he thought of their lips and hot kisses in his pavilion or in his bed. Aegon planned to see them in his own chambers after they were finished here. If Margaery knew about those, she would certainly be less kind. “I shall miss them terribly when they leave after the wedding.”
“That’ll be up to them, I suppose. Mayhaps they shall stay longer?”
It calmed her as she giggled some more. “May I drink another sip?” she asked shyly. “My lord father and brother never let me drink more than a sip.”
He laughed. “You may drink as much as you wish.”
Margaery did as bid. She bit under her lower lip nervously. Did she think I would miss that? Aegon wondered aghast.
“Sweetling, whatever is the matter?”
Suddenly she flung her arms around his neck in a storm of hair and placed a kiss on his neck and then another and a small groan fled his throat. Margaery’s soft breasts pressed into his chest.
“It is my privilege to tend to your needs,” her soft brown eyes tracing down as her husky voice caressed him. “And wants,” Margaery’s cheeks were rosy red as her hands drifted down to his sides, trembling the entire way. “I just want to be a good queen to you, to bear your children, to kiss what you wish to kiss; whatever you need of me, I’ll do.” Aegon hardened. “If I must wear a veil in bed, tell me. A woman’s role is to obey and serve her husband. Command me, my king,” she begged.
Aegon commanded her to do what he wished.
Sansa
The sept swelled with lords and ladies in their finest silks and doublets.
One could mistake it for a happy affair. Sansa could hear them behind the thick doors as the king’s arm entangled with her own in the place of her lord father.
His touch was sickening.
’Twas a small kindness, for it would have killed Lord Eddard to see this travesty carried out.
King Aegon sported a handsome doublet with gold studs and a long bourbon cape held in place by the dragon of his house.
“Must you make me do this?” Sansa dared.
“Why, my lady, now is not the time for wedding jitters.”
“You look stunning,” King Aegon whispered, his eyes searching and lingering over her. “My own queen would not wear that dress half as well.”
Sansa made no mention of it, as Septa Lemore beseeched her to do. “Unless you wish to awaken his anger, child.” And Sansa knew whom would bear the brunt of it, and Father’s skin had so recently looked a shade healthier. He was getting better, propped up by pillows with sun kissing him through the windows. Her father was even allowed thirty minutes of walking outside his chambers. Sansa refused to fail her father yet again.
“Your Grace is too kind.”
Ser Pate Storm and Ser Lorence Roxton swung the doors open. A volley of songs pelted them with a soothing melody. Her Lady Mother once said songs gave a maiden courage on her wedding day. But she must have been mistaken, for it did little to untangle the knots in her stomach. Amongst the gathered well-wishers, Sansa saw the maimed queen and her ladies-in-waiting; opposite of them, Princess Arianne and her baseborn cousins, dark and gorgeous. Gallant knights such as Ser Balon Swann and Ser Jon Fossoway dipped their heads as she strolled past, heart racing. Lord Rycker sat next to his two sons, clad in black, for they mourned still, Lord Buckler and Lord Aurane Velaryon as well. Lord Dickon Cole, though he was no true lord. At least not until the war was won and he could claim his prize. The few familiar faces, such as Jeyne Poole or Jazmine, gazed without pity, as if they hated her. Sansa’s mouth was dry. I don’t need them anyway. And held her head up with grace.
Boys stared too long. Their sisters looked away, eyes narrowed. She knew that look—envy, or something close to it.
Both she understood since she flowered and sported a woman’s bosom. What was absent was her Lord Father sporting a proud smile and Lady Catelyn weeping tears of joy hidden behind a silk veil, or the adoration of a realm from Winterfell to Sunspear.
Sansa missed even Arya.
Maybe she could even forgive her… Roslyn said she should for her own sake. “Otherwise it’ll leave you as hollow as a drum, my lady.” Yet Arya had run wild and won the ultimate prize of any lady: A crown of gold, the envy of any maiden. Sansa had sinned, and the Old Gods punished her for it. Perhaps the gods cared for neither. Are you miserable, Arya? Do you think of me?
The sept in the Red Keep was small and grotesque compared to the long marbled halls of the Sept of Baelor and its large golden dome. Still, it dragged on and on, and it refused to end. Every step was agony as Sansa refused to wobble before these beasts. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and well bred.
It was wrong.
So very wrong.
Only kind Roslyn’s smile remained to her. A drop in a sea of sycophants and traitors. Sweet Roslyn, I would shove you away if I felt you would listen. Bile grew in the back of her throat. It should have been thousands as they named her Queen before the realm. Thousands whom adored and loved her. Not the wife of some Dornish prince… she mused bitterly.
Sansa knew they would have loved her more than maimed Margaery or her plain sister. At least Roslyn’s smile was honest and true. Sansa wished to cry and laugh in equal measure. Mostly she wished to weep.
Pillars of light peered through the stained-glass windows, bathing them in a feast of colors. It did little to warm her skin as her intended awaited her.
Quentyn…
Even his name was a disappointment to her.
’Tis the name she would give to a hound. Not a lord.
He didn’t wear his doublet half as well as the king or any man. Even with his high leather boots adding to his height, she still stood three inches above him. The air was thick with incense as the septon said his sermons and bade them to declare themselves to each other. The king unfastened her maiden cloak gracefully and kissed her on the brow as if he were her father. Vows were exchanged as Prince Quentyn fastened the gaudy cloak of House Martell around her shoulders. He sealed it with a chaste kiss that sent the sept into applause. It took every ounce of restraint not to gag.
The wedding feast was held in the Small Hall, but Sansa felt peckish as she ate little and drank even less. She doubted she would keep anything down. Soon someone would cry out for the bedding, and Sansa dreaded that moment most of all. They’ll tear off my clothes and strip away whatever dignity I still hold. And that was less than the gaudy rag they wrapped her in.
“Sister!” Princess Arianne’s voice cut through the wedding. She kissed her on both cheeks. “Oh, I’m so thrilled; how I’ve always wanted one.” Her smile didn’t match her eyes. “I’m sure Quentyn told you. I prayed every night to the Seven that my lady mother would give me a sister. I suppose you can see it went unanswered. Well, somewhat.”
The princess's lips twisted up in mockery and laughed. Her husband’s cheeks flushed red, and not from the wine, and yet he couldn’t even meet his sister’s gaze.
Sansa said nothing as Princess Arianne retreated from them in laughter after Ser Daemon Sand, in his white armor, begged her the honor of a dance. And this is the man whom is supposed to shield me from harm? Unmanned by a woman?
What a jape.
Mayhaps he was cockless as well? If the Gods were good, he would be. Yet even a pathetic worm like him has that between his legs, and he’ll take his rights with me. Sansa understood. All he cares about is Winterfell and the power it’ll grant him.
The Gods won’t be that good to me, Sansa knew. They punish me and my house.
The halls were abuzz with laughter and conversation as wine flowed. Still, her husband found his plate of food more interesting than herself, and when he dared to look up it was never more than a moment with a pathetic shy look. He blushed like a girl, Sansa thought with revulsion. Roslyn may have found it pitiful or even endearing, but she was a kinder woman with the heart of a septa. She didn’t understand how court worked and what these bitches and scoundrels would think. A man was supposed to be bold and confident, not meek and shy. They must be snickering in their cups.
If it were Tommen, he would scarcely have left her eyes or relaxed his attempts at those childish japes of his. But he would have done so boldly, with a manly flourish.
I'd rather suffer through these japes than endure this pathetic shyness.
Couples were already swaying along the floor. King Aegon danced with his veiled queen before switching with Septa Lemore, whom moved gracefully for a woman of her age. Princess Arianne swayed with Lord Jon Connington. Even the Martell bastards found willing partners as she remained in her seat, swirling the wine in her goblet, utterly miserable. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I should be the center of envy this night.
Lord Raymond approached. In the corner of her eye, Sansa noted his sister Roslyn offering a reassuring smile and understood the game that was afoot. “Prince Quentyn, may I borrow your wife?” He asked gently. Roslyn’s brother was plain and average, with a thin, wispy moustache he took a boyish pride in, as much as he did in attending the sept.
“I shall dance with my lady, Ser,” her husband said abruptly, his skin flushed as he extended his hand.
It took her aback.
Sansa’s smile was thin.
“As you wish, my prince.”
In truth, he wasn’t an awful dancer as they twirled across the dance floor, his hand on her waist. They were close. Sansa could feel the wine on his breath as it gave him some courage to look her in the eye.
“My lady,” Prince Quentyn whispered. “Is this night treating you well?”
Sansa said nothing. May it drive your courage into flight, she hoped. Unfortunately, he drank enough not to cower at the first sign of trouble.
“I know this wedding may not be ideal in your estimations, but I hope to change that.”
And it was tactful, and his smile seemed earnest, if awkward. She thought of Martyn then and felt absurdly guilty. Roslyn's advice echoed in her skull, and against her better judgement, she took off some of her armor. The armor of a lady. Maybe he wouldn’t take his rights with her after all? And for the first time that evening, she felt hopeful.
“’Tis true,” Sansa admitted. “Albeit I don’t believe one dance shall change such, my prince.”
“We shall have many more,” Prince Quentyn said eagerly. “Hawking as well, if it please you, and when this war is done, a trip to Sunspear. You’ll love it.”
“How delightful,” she chimed with false cheer. “Though I suppose you would be more at home in Yronwood. You grew up there, did you not?” And he soon spoke of his fostering with House Yronwood. All of court knew he was close with them.
And Sansa nodded in agreement at whatever he had just said. “You are a fine dancer.” Then she laughed. And her ladylike laugh made him hers as his dull eyes widened, completely engrossed. She doubted a woman had ever done so in his company before. For a moment she felt a queen as she had him enchanted and under her heel. She rested a hand against his chest, steadying herself. “I know not why Princess Arianne said I should fear for my toes.”
Prince Quentyn grimaced.
“She isn’t very kind to you, is she?”
He sighed. “She is the heir of Dorne.” And spun her around.
“Not in any other kingdom,” she whispered. “You are the eldest son.”
Quentyn frowned. “That is not the way of Dorne, my lady. Those are not the way of my people.” His tone solemn.
It reminded her of her lord father. Maybe Roslyn was right? And if she merely asked for kindness, it would be shown as befit a gallant knight. He wouldn’t bed her and doom her nieces. In a brief respite between songs, as they merely swayed together with his hands on her waist, Sansa could even fool herself into thinking he was handsome.
“Quentyn…” Her voice trembling.
“My lady? You're shaking.”
Before she could find the words, Ser Edric Dayne tapped on her husband’s shoulder. “My prince.” He dipped his head. “May I have your lovely wife for a spell?” The Sword of the Morning was tall and fetching in his doublet. Everything Quentyn was not. Sansa was abashed to see him. He’s avoided me for months.
Quentyn nodded his consent.
Edric Dayne danced as well as he fought perfectly. “Don’t react to what I say.” He leaned in as the music roared around them, smothering their conversation. Sansa could scarcely hear him. “Be as hard as stone. The Spider has agents everywhere. They watch everything and trust me little. Smile when I say smile and laugh when I bid.” And the thought of Varys wrapped her in a cloak of fear.
But by the end, as he informed her the truth she had already truly known, tears threatened to spew forth. Still, Sansa was smiling. Her Lady Mother would smile no more, and Rickon was restless in the dirt. And still her father lived, so she smiled.
“I’m sorry, my lady, the king has done you a great injustice by not telling you.”
“Rickon loved you,” Sansa hissed through a smile.
“Justice was done,” Ser Edric Dayne vowed. “The men who did the deed were slain.”
A small scoff. “And yet you serve their masters, whom slew your squire.” Venom dripping from her voice as she pressed her nails into his skin. “And you still fancy yourself a man of honor? True men died for us.”
“He is the rightful king,” Edric Dayne said. “He bears the sword of kings.”
“It’s steel,” Sansa replied. “Do you think me some witless child?”
“No, Lady Sansa.” Ser Edric’s voice was soft as silk. “You are a brave daughter of a man I admire deeply. You still have friends in court. Don’t lose hope.” Do you count yourself among them? Sansa thought, appalled. Tall and comely Ser Edric was, and he was as disgusting as a toad swimming in the gutter to her.
We trusted you.
You swore to us.
You should have died.
“Is that what you tell yourself when you shoved your sword through Lord Beric’s chest? He was your ser. The man who raised you,” Sansa cut him down without mercy as she smiled her false smile. “He whom was married to your aunt. They say she wept over his corpse. Did Lady Allyria curse you as well?”
Even in King’s Landing, they heard the tales of how Blackhaven was taken. The singers adored the Sword of the Morning, as the pious praised his honor for sparing every man and woman in the castle, and maidens named him as tragic as the tale of Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk for slaying the man who knighted him in a duel for the castle.
Ser Edric’s violet eyes looked watery. “He would not yield.”
“Lord Beric was valiant. A better man than any in these halls. He taught me another lesson. One I should have heeded.”
The talk of lessons annoyed her as she drove her heel into his foot and took her leave. Unfortunately, he didn’t even grunt in pain, as Sansa wished.
Sansa grabbed a goblet of wine from one of the serving girls and took a liberal gulp. She swiftly declined Ser Horras’ offer to dance, feigning being tired as she took another. “I fear I’m rather clumsy at the moment,” she giggled. Her head was swimming, as she wanted to be home in Winterfell, safe in her bed, without a stomach full of knots. She closed her eyes and saw massive comforting grey walls and a sheet of snow blanketing the battlements. Not marrying some second son of a desert wasteland. Father stood strong, without a cane, and Lady was grinning and perfect, with a pink ribbon wrapped around her neck. Snow drifted down, as sweet as a song.
Then Sansa opened her eyes and she was back in the sweat and hot south of King Aegon’s court.
Sansa drank some more.
It was getting easier.
Every gulp was nicer than the last.
King Aegon was nowhere to be seen as lords and ladies abandoned the dance floor for their seats in the halls. Where did he go? she wondered, afraid. She feared what that meant, and she could scarcely breathe as her heart was pounding like a drum within her chest. I shall need every drop.
“My lady, I think you’ve had enough.” Roslyn seized the goblet.
“Not nearly enough.” Sansa frowned. “You followed me. You insipid thing.”
“I think so,” and squeezed her hand. “You are only nervous. Everything is going to be fine. You have nothing to worry about. You talked to Prince Quentyn, I trust?”
Everything hurt as she struggled to think. No, I didn’t… I didn’t… She thought and panicked. “Oh, Roslyn, I never… I didn’t,” she squeaked out. “I tried, but…”
Roslyn soothed her. “We still have time…” “I’m sure he’s back at his seat.”
As they wandered over through the lords and ladies, the air quieted suddenly as Ser Alyn Ambrose’s voice echoed.
“Queen Margaery asked you a question.”
“Your queen, mayhaps, Ser. Princess Elia was ours,” Lady Jordayne replied.
“Please,” Queen Margaery begged. “I’m not offended, Ser. We must show grace.”
One of Ser Alyn’s household knights scoffed, and the others were glowering daggers, little appeased by Queen Margaery’s words. It was then one of Prince Oberyn’s bastards laughed uncontrollably. All eyes were drawn to her. Elia Sand, Sansa remembered was her name. She walked and dressed as a highborn girl, but she spent time in the training yard like some boy, as Arya did. A wild, slender thing. She was well mingled amongst the Jordayne and Blackmont households.
“To Maimed Margaery!” And raised her glass. “Our kind queen.”
A woman gasped.
Roslyn clutched her necklace.
A voice cried out from the pack of Reach knights. “Seize the bastard!” “Have her flogged!” another added, as they were drunk and ill-tempered, with their prides pricked. “Seize her for the king!”
Sansa was afraid. “We should go,” she whispered to Roslyn.
Ser Alyn reached through the crowd of Dornishmen. “Don’t touch me!” Elia Sand shrieked.
“Unhand me!” He seized her, undeterred, before suddenly releasing her.
Ser Alyn tumbled backwards into some benches, clutching his chest as he fell on the stone floor
He didn’t move.
Not even a twitch.
A pool of blood formed.
Lord Perros Blackmont held a bloodied, ornate dagger as women screamed in horror.
“No one touches the blood of House Martell.”
“MURDER!” Alyn’s father screamed. “MURDER!” He cried out, grief-stricken. The crowd surged, unthinking. Men were flying into benches. Dresses were torn. Daggers were drawn by highborn boys. Tyrell and Martell guards drew castle steel and spears for the sake of honor. A thousand years of strife and rivalry came bubbling forth. Others were simply fleeing from the fighting, trampling over one another in the process. Ser Daemon Sand, clad in white, severed a hand of a man whom went too close to Queen Margaery.
And Sansa fled, clutching only Roslyn’s hands. “Stay with me,” she said as they ran as fast as they could in high heels.
“My lady.” Lady Roslyn was pale as a bedsheet. “A knight. He killed a knight. My brothers…”
“They’ll be fine,” Sansa lied. “Don’t stop moving.” Maybe they were with Lady Catelyn and Rickon now? Sansa hoped not. Roslyn would grieve for them, and that was upsetting. They were halfway down the halls when something hit her with the force of a boulder. Her hand fell free from Roslyn.
Sansa fell, breathless, on the rug, with a man sprawled atop of her.
His breath kissed her.
Sansa couldn’t push him off her.
Behind him, another hollered and swung his castle steel with reckless abandon. Not caring whom he slew. Oh father.
Roslyn jumped in front of her as the blade arced down.
Sansa tried to scream, but nothing came out.
Fool! You sweet fool.
Steel never kissed flesh.
Bone cracked beneath the man’s own hilt as Ser Edric appeared like a phantom, shattering the man’s jaw and catching his sword in a blink of an eye. Where did he come from? Sansa wondered, dazed. And in another moment, tossing the man off her like a bag of flour with a single kick, the man soared into a plate of mashed potatoes.
“Are you well, Lady Sansa and Lady Roslyn?” the Sword of the Morning asked.
And he truly looked the Sword of the Morning the bards loved as he stood in a protective stance with his long blond hair with streaks of ash flowing past his ruined doublet. His eyes were watching and waiting. Waiting for a fool to test his resolve. Mayhaps even hoping for it.
Roslyn had a few scrapes, and her dress was torn, but otherwise they were well and hale.
“We are well,” Sansa answered for them, for Roslyn was blushing a bright red hue.
It was then order was restored as King Aegon strolled into the hall like nothing had happened, with his sworn swords behind him, and his cousin Tyene Sand, her hair askew and lip bleeding.
“Enough!” He declared, and the king’s voice was law. “Whoever has broken my peace shall answer for it on the morrow.”
The chaos broke like a fever. Sellswords stepped back. Lords pretended they hadn’t drawn blades as the music resumed.
Then his violet eyes fell upon her.
And the king smiled.
“It is time for the bedding!” He cried out. “A joyous occasion, my lords!” And bade them to see it done.
Ser Edric Dayne would defend her from sellswords, but not from this, as he stepped aside. Roslyn whispered words of encouragement. It was the last bit Sansa would receive that night, as Andar Yronwood hurled her over his broad shoulders, roaring with laughter. Soon her beautiful dress of silk and ivory was stripped away, along with her dignity, as their hands wandered and pinched her flesh. The journey to their spacious apartment was longer than even to the altar as Sansa endured the humiliation. “Don’t pinch me,” she hissed once. And the Redwyne dullard laughed. “Your husband will be doing that soon enough!” And it sent them tittering as she reddened. Doors swung open, and then they tossed her onto the feathered bed, and the giggling gaggle of bitches did likewise with Quentyn’s naked form.
Lady Annara Farring declared with a haughty tone, hands on her hip. “Bed the maid, my prince. Make her howl!”
“Of course he will! He’s Dornish!” One of Quentyn’s friends boasted. “You know where to kiss her.”
“Kiss? Use your hands!”
Their bawdy japes lingered in the air long after they were ushered out of the double doors. Sansa was flushed as she wrapped the blanket around her naked form. The comfort of the silk was brief as she gazed upon her husband in growing horror. His manhood stood tall as a lance.
“You are beautiful,” Quentyn said.
And leaned over.
“Quentyn,” she gasped out. “Please, I don’t wish this. Don’t do this.”
Her husband frowned.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered in the darkness. “May we simply lie here this night?” And Sansa trembled as she hugged the blanket like a shield. He’ll agree. I know he will. Roslyn was right. He was gently raised.
“No,” Quentyn said without hesitation. “We must do our duty.”
Sansa flinched. “Must?” She whispered. “You must do nothing that you don’t wish to.”
Quentyn drove his hand through his dark mop of hair in frustration. “They’ll know if we don’t. Stableboys, servants, my friends, my sister and her ladies.” His knuckles turned white. “All of them shall snicker at me in the halls. The prince who can’t bed his wife.” Do you seek pity from me? Sansa wondered, abashed.
“I shall be a man this night.”
“A true lord would not care for the opinions of others.”
Her fingers pressed into his arms before cupping his cheeks. “Please, Quentyn,” she said. “You swore you wished to try in the ballroom. If you wish this, don’t do this. Let us talk this night away.” Sansa smiled gently. “Tell me some more of Sunspear and the Water Gardens, and I shall of Winterfell.”
“I shall strive to be gentle,” Quentyn said.
Sansa held her hand out in desperation. “You’ll kill them! You’ll kill my nieces!” she shrieked. Quentyn was deaf to her cries as he pressed her down, wrists bent. The bedding was messy and bloody as her tears fell upon the bloody sheets. Her maidenhead gave way to Quentyn’s pitiful, awkward thrusts as she felt his weak seed pooling between her legs. Everything was wrong as she faded away upon the sheets, her hands held captive by his own. I asked him… I begged him! And this is how she was repaid, despoiled like some whore in a brothel? By the likes of this ugly, small man! A lesser son of a decadent house. She was Sansa Stark, daughter of the Hand of the King. “Stop weeping,” Quentyn commanded as his hands played with her breasts. “You are beautiful.”
Sansa seethed.
She would make him weep. I shall suck his tears off one by one.
Every day of his life would be misery.
He would know no sleep.
By the time Quentyn was done and rolled off her, her tears had dried up and ice filled her veins. The ice of a Stark.
“We are done, my lady.” Quentyn’s chest was puffed up with pride.
“We started?” Sansa feigned puzzlement. “I scarcely felt a thing.” Her eyes lingered downward. “Oh, that’s why.”