Chapter Text
The jagged skyline of King’s Landing rises sharp and strong through the windshield.
For a moment, the familiarity of it seems strange to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. But then again, she’s been away from Westeros’s capital for just four years—a far shorter amount of time than the six years she actually spent living here. The first time she’d laid eyes on the city, it had seemed to glimmer in the sunlight. Crown Prince Joffrey had smiled and pointed out the broken spires of the Dragonpit, the belfry of the Great Sept of Baelor, the seven turrets of the Red Keep, all of it set off against the wall of silvery skyscrapers built across the Blackwater Rush.
An optical illusion, Sansa knows now. Nothing but a trick of light against glass.
Something over the bay catches her eye. “What is that over there? Scaffolding?” she asks the driver, leading forward from her seat in the back to point. Buckled in beside her, Jon Snow stops tapping away on his phone to bob his head around the headrest to get a better view.
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” The driver nods at the rows of scaffolding lining the northmost stretch of the city’s historic walls. “They say that section will be done by the end of the year.”
Sansa frowns. “But—I thought King Stannis said at the Jubilee that the repairs from the battle had finished?” She’s sure she’s remembered correctly. The man had even smiled —and widely enough that Sansa could see it on her bedroom’s television at Winterfell.
“The waterfront walls, yes. They left the city the most open to attack and storm surges,” the driver clarifies, signaling before merging onto the exit ramp. The car circles up and around and, for a beat, the Blackwater Bay—foamy grey, peppered with ferries and tourboats—fills their view. Four years ago, flaming ships and screaming men had blanketed the Bay.
Then they drop down into a sloping tunnel that will carry them under the halo of historic boroughs outside the city walls. “But it’ll take a while still. Surely you saw all the damage, ma’am, before you left for the North?”
Before I left for the North?
Sansa draws in a slow inhale and lets it out to the four-count beat of the tunnel lights flashing through the car’s windows. This is Visenya’s Tunnel, an express tunnel that takes them below King’s Landing’s walls and all the way up to the Street of the Sisters.
It’s the same tunnel through which she and her father had been spirited away from the Red Keep. Back then, their royal chauffeur service had been a dark SUV with tinted windows and a military motorcade that escorted them all the way to a strip of air tarmac and the House Stark jet waiting there.
She hadn’t been doing much looking back. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
From the corner of her eye, she sees Jon peering over at her. He’s her Night’s Watch bodyguard for this trip, ready to put himself between her and danger. But on this front, she doesn’t need his help.
***
To keep his sister-wives chaste, Baelor the Blessed constructed the Maidenvault. These chambers belonged to Daena Targaryen, known to history as Daena the Defiant, as she escaped from her imprisonment several times. When she fell pregnant, she refused to name the father of her child. She raise her son, Daemon, in these very chambers until Aegon IV acknowledged him as one of his Great Bastards and gifted him with Blackfyre, Aegon the Conquerer’s own longsword. Daena’s later life is unknown, overshadowed by Daemon’s ill-fated rebellion against his half-brother, Daeron the Good.
Sansa’s eyes skim over the plaque just inside the door of the suite of rooms assigned to her for her sojourn in King’s Landing. She knows all of the plaques inside the Tower of the Hand by heart, as well as the one that had hung in her old room in Maegor’s Holdfast.
They’re meant to memorialize the Keep as a living monument, but frankly they don’t go much beyond what is taught in schools. The good stories, like those of Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight, or of the Dance of the Dragons, are retold over and over again with varying degrees of salaciousness in popular historical fiction or big budget movie films. Even Daena has a half-dozen documentaries and films done on her. This set say she and Aemon were passionately in love, that group say she just wanted freedom.
But if the Red Keep back then had been anything like the Red Keep Sansa had survived, no one would ever really know.
Sansa signs and moves through the foyer into the little sitting room. Three lady’s maids bustle around Sansa, unpacking her trunks and suitcases. One maid, Danyelle, is arranging her shoes in a tidy row in a rack and another maid, Jenny, is sliding her gowns onto hangers and shaking them out before hanging them in the wardrobe.
Jon’s not with her anymore. He’s been assigned quarters in the White Sword Tower along with the other bodyguards coming in from out of town with members of the Great Houses for the festivities. Those festivities being the wedding of Shireen Baratheon, Princess of Dragonstone, to Prince Quentyn Martell of Dorne. For two weeks, she was beholden to the Iron Throne, as were the rest of the Westeros’ houses.
After all, they’d pledged their fealty and loyalty to Stannis as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms after he’d taken the throne from his not-nephew, Joffrey. That oath bound all members of a house, and so when Stannis called for one of House Stark’s daughters to serve as a bridesmaid for Shireen, House Stark couldn’t refuse.
Her quarters in the Maidenvault have a touch of irony, under those circumstances, but overall it’s a quite sumptuous set of rooms. There’s a bedroom with a four-poster bed and an attached balcony overlooking the sea, a comfortable solar with ample seating, a wet bar and a glossy black television, and a marbled bathroom complete with double sinks and a claw-footed tub.
With just the lady’s maids scurrying around and speaking to each other in hushed tones as they work, Sansa’s as alone in this place as anyone possibly could be. She steps down into the sunken solar and takes a seat in a low-profile armchair, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.
She and Daena have a lot in common, actually. The tabloids seem to come up with new stories every other month about the Stark family, and Sansa in particular. Gossips from the Wall to the Broken Arm think they know what truly happened to the Stark daughters in King’s Landing, or what Lord Stark’s mysterious illness is. Every time Sansa or Arya venture out beyond Winterfell’s walls, the rumor mills kick up again.
Did Sansa Love Joffrey? The Real Reason She Stayed In King’s Landing
Lady Sansa In Crimson: A Lannister Homage? Stannis Furious
Lady Arya Hitchhiked To Winterfell, Innkeeper Says
Blonde Infant In First Keep: Why Stannis Banished Sansa After Blackwater Battle
That last type of story is usually accompanied by a barrage of photographs of twenty-one year old Sansa in heavy jackets or belted dresses, red circles drawn around her belly. Arya hates those, and has been known to buy copies just to set them on fire.
But cathartic infernos aside, Arya and Sansa can handle those stories just fine. Whether by Syrio or Queen Cersei, they’d each learned to grit their teeth and bear it. The stories that made them want to scream and shout, and maybe sue some papers for defamation were of a completely different vein:
Lord Stark Kept In Padded Cell: Source Reveals All
Hot Robb Fills In For Lord Stark Yet Again: Will Ned Ever Reclaim His Former Glory?
Lady Stark Out With Mystery Man—Northern Marriage In Shambles!
Maybe one day, in twenty or fifty or a hundred years, someone will try to tell Sansa’s story. Arya’s story. Their lord father’s story. But they'll never get it right. Just like they can make a dozen movies about Daena the Defiant and never reach the absolute truth. For the Seven’s sake, Sansa is sitting inside the Maidenvault right now, but it’s been retrofitted for electricity and water, and it’s been redecorated with expensive furniture and linens. She herself lived in the Red Keep, was all but the next Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and still she cannot truly grasp the ache that would settle in one’s stomach after years of confinement within this single building.
Just like a multi-million gold dragon costume budget and the best cast that Westeros has to offer will never be able to replicate staring down the real King Joffrey and Queen Cersei.
“Lady Sansa.” Danyelle stands at her shoulder, hand hovering over Sansa’s wrist where it’s draped over the arm of the chair. She give Sansa’s jeans and blazer a meaningful look. “Your appointment with the King is in half an hour.” Sansa nods and rises to her feet.
On goes a navy sheath set and a pair of nude pumps. Sansa taps out emails while Jenny teases the crown of her auburn hair and twists it into place at the nape of her neck. Her mascara is the only thing left to apply when Devan Seaworth knocks at her door to escort her to Maegor’s, so she skips her usual double coat. It’s probably best that way, anyway. King Stannis is too old-school to approve of such vanity.
Her suspicious are confirmed as she and Devan enter Maegor’s and her eyes pick out the voids on the walls.
“His Grace is changing the furnishings to his tastes?” Sansa asks as they walk through the corridor. “A Fossoway used to hang just there—Florian and Jonquil. It was one of my favorites when I lived here.”
Devan hums. “I’m not sure about that one, My Lady, but King Stannis did auction a lot of the movable art or loaned them to museums to offset the rebuilding costs. If you’d like, I could check on it, though,” he offers, gesturing for her to go ahead of him around the corner. They were headed towards the Small Council room, and Sansa notices the twin sphinxes that flanked its doorway are gone, too.
Plenty of art remains, no doubt, but it's still a shocking view for a girl raised among Lannisters.
“I’d appreciate that, if it’s not too much trouble. It was the first think I would see when I walked through the doors,” Sansa tells him, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt when they stop at the doors.
Devan knocks, listens, then opens the door. “The Most Gracious Lady Sansa, First Daughter of House Stark,” he announces.
He’s still using full titles , she thinks, and takes a deep breath before stepping carefully over the old threshold and into the Council Chamber.
***
His Grace, King Stannis of House Baratheon, Second of His Name, sits at the head of the Small Council chamber. He’s alone, save for Ser Davos Seaworth just to his right, who stands respectfully when she answers. Sansa’s jaw loosens; she’s had enough of “private” audiences with a King of Westeros to last her a lifetime.
Stannis hasn’t changed a bit since Sansa last saw him, save for extra lines in his forehead and around his eyes. He watches her approach him with his fist pressed against his mouth. He’s in a simple charcoal three-piece suit and a red tie, his crisp white shirt buttoned to his throat, his sigil ring gleaming in the overhead lighting. Everything about Stannis screams sharp lines and hard edges. Ser Davos and his soft brown suit fade in the background behind him.
The sign of a good hand , Sansa supposes. Ever present, never overbearing .
She tucks one foot behind the other and sinks low before the King. “Your Grace,” she murmurs, relaxing her shoulders and dropping her head. There’s silence for a beat, then another, and another. Sansa locks her knees, tightens her thighs, holds her curtsy. Finally, Stannis lowers his fist and rises to his feet.
“Lady Sansa,” he greets her, as she pulls herself back upright. “I presume your accommodations are to your liking?”
“Very much so. My Lady Mother would like to pass along her thanks for offering to provide lady’s maids and dressers as well. I’ve already met them and they’ve been welcoming and helpful so far.”
Stannis frowns. No, that does him a disservice. His face simply doesn’t change from its resting scowl. “It makes no sense for the Keep to quarter every House’s servants for two weeks when we have workers to spare and double-digit unemployment in the city.”
“Still," Sansa dips her head politely. "We thank you, Your Grace. I have no doubt that I will be well tended to for Princess Shireen’s wedding.”
“The moment you’re not, let Davos know. He’ll see to it,” Stannis tells her. He crosses the room in long strides to where two couches sit facing each other. He gestures for her to join him, and Davos resumes his seat, watching them from across the table, pen at the ready over his notepad. “We have a more significant matter to discuss, and there’s no point in beating around the bush about it.”
“If this is about the timber stocks, we’re still waiting on Lady Mormont to sign off on the lease,” Sansa says, lowering herself onto the couch and crossing her ankles.
Stannis waves his hand. “She did. Robb sent it along a few hours ago. You did email that contract back to him, didn’t you, Davos?”
Davos nods. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The timber issue had been the only significant matter Sansa had been briefed on the night before her departure this morning at 5:00 AM. The hair on the back of her neck starts to prickle even before Stannis turns his icy gaze back onto her. Still, she keeps her eyebrows neutral, the corners of her mouth turned up. It’s a pleasant and blank expression that had seen her through years in this very Holdfast.
Stannis leans back. “I’ve made the decision—not officially, not before Shireen’s wedding—to give Storm’s End and it’s Lordship to Edric.”
Storm’s End and Edric as something to discuss with Sansa? Her heartbeat quickens, but her brain keeps going. It feeds her information she could process even if she’s not sure where Stannis is going. Edric…Edric…Joffrey’s father, the old King Robert, had an older son named Edric from his college days, didn’t he?
“Edric…Baratheon? Your brother’s son with Lady Delena?” Sansa asks, and Stannis nods once. Sansa’s mind sputters, flips, reverses. King Robert had died with no legitimate heirs. The three royal Baratheon children—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—were all the products of incest between the Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, and her brother, Kingsguard Jaime Lannister. That had been the whole point of Stannis’ undertaking a war against Joffrey for the Iron Throne after Robert had died.
“But…legitimizing Edric would place him ahead of you in the line of succession—” Sansa starts.
“I didn’t say a word about legitimizing him,” Stannis interrupts, and Sansa snaps her mouth shut so quickly she’s sure she hears her teeth click. “But Shireen cannot hold the Iron Throne, Dragonstone, and Storm’s End. And I’ll not see the Crown’s ancestral seat passed to some middle-management fifth-cousin thrice removed. As unsavory as I find the prospect of Storm’s End going to a boy born on the wrong side of the sheets, Edric was raised there. He has the Baratheon name, Baratheon blood. His sons will have the Baratheon name and Baratheon blood.”
Claxons ring in Sansa’s ears, even as she demurs. “A sensible plan, Your Grace.”
“It’s the only plan.” Stannis shifts in his chair and levels Sansa with the same stare his father used to give her when he’d made a decision and would not be swayed. “You will attend Shireen at her wedding to Quentyn Martell. You will accompany her on her honeymoon to Dorne. And after a reasonable amount of time, say, two or three months, you will marry Edric—quietly, without fuss—and move to Storm’s End.”
Chills wash over Sansa in waves, but she keeps her face placid. Her legs feel heavy and restless, but she keeps them primly crossed. But she can’t stop the words that spill out of her mouth. “I can’t.”
Stannis wraps his fingers around the arm of a couch. “Lady Sansa. There are still factions in the North that call your father the King of Winter. They were ready to put a crown on your brother’s head if your father had died in the cells beneath our very feet. Your father had wanted to unite our Houses before everything went to pieces—you and Joffrey, do you remember? Consider a marriage to Edric as a fulfillment of that wish, if that helps you sleep at night. But the separatists must see that your family is committed to House Baratheon, the Iron Throne, all Seven Kingdoms.”
The King’s argument is objectively strong, but it does the opposite of urging Sansa to agree to it. She still remembers when his soldiers broke down her door, not three floors above this one. She’d been terrified, then relieved, to see their sigil: a crowned stag’s head in a flaming heart. Then-Stannis had promised her she was safe, that she would go home, that he’d found Lord Stark and was freeing him from the Black Cells and moving him to more comfortable quarters that very moment. Stannis had been so sincere, then, shell-shocked himself and moved by the highborn lords and ladies who collapsed sobbing at his feet in their finery, thanking him for their delivery from Cersei and Joffrey.
But that was then, and this was now. This is a Stannis in his fourth year of kingship. Justice, truth, and righteousness have lost their shine, and he’s right where his enemies had been before him: clinging to power by the skin of his teeth.
And once again, I am to be held as the figurehead of House Stark , Sansa realizes. Another day, another king. She and Stannis regard each other in silence, until even Davos’ pen stops scratching across the room.
“My Lady Sansa,” Stannis says.
Sansa unclasps her hands and smooths her skirt down again. “I’m sorry, I was just remembering. This is the very same room that I was called to, after my father and all of his men had been arrested and taken to the black cells. Cersei and Varys and Pycelle all accused me of having traitor’s blood like my father and my sister and then had me sit at that very table right right there to write letters to all my lordly relations. I asked each of them—each and every one of them—to come to King’s Landing to swear fealty to Joffrey.”
Stannis has the decency to break eye contact by now. Sansa’s whole body is still on the edge of all-over trembling—though from terror or rage, she’s still not sure.
“I was only twenty years old at the time, but it’s quite a vivid memory, looking back.”
Stannis pushes himself out of his chair and stands behind it, needing to put something solid between himself and the young woman before him. She’s only a scant few years older than his own daughter.
“I—” he pauses and clenches his jaw, searching for the right words. “I appreciate the weight of your time here in King’s Landing. But I have a Kingdom to hold together, and the weight of a crown behind me to do it. Now, unless you have somehow managed to marry without those camera-wielding snakes outside finding out about it, or you are otherwise legally unable to marry, you will marry Edric. And whatever…arrangements the two of you come to after the birth of your first son is between the two of you.”
Sansa barely hears the last sentence Stannis grinds out. Her mind has started working, whirring and spinning so loudly that it drowns him out. In the space of a few seconds, she chases thought after thought until a solution clicks into place.
“I am married, Your Grace,” she says, looking Stannis right in the eye. After Joffrey, after Cersei, after Baelish, Stannis is child’s play. “That’s why I said I couldn’t marry Edric. I’m so sorry about the unpleasantness, making you think I was being selfish. It’s just—we haven’t told anyone yet, no one at all, actually, not even my parents, and I didn’t know how to even bring it up.”
“You’re married,” Stannis repeats, deadpan. His knuckles go white where they grip the back of the chair. His brow furrows over the bridge of his nose. “To whom?”
Her smile is placid. “To Jon. Lord Snow.”