Chapter 50: Sansa IV
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Chapter 50: Sansa IV
Besides the occasional braying of the mules, the sounds of hooves and feet on dirt, and the whispers of the wind, the journey west from the Eyrie so far had been unsettlingly quiet.
Had she been misled? Were not these peaks thick with mountain clans, mountain lions, and wild bears? So far all she had seen was a smattering of mangy goats, lazily chewing on the few tufts of grass that dared poke through the thin sheen of snow that had settled over the past few days atop the peaks and cliffs.
And so they went, moving as one large mass of steel and men, Lord Nestor still glowering bitter at the helm. Sansa avoided him as best she could. She was sure he wouldn't hurt her, but she had been wrong before. And so instead she stayed near the middle of the pack the entire way along, eyeing the back of Lord Nestor's head, occasionally exchanging thoughts with Lothor Brune out of boredom as she went.
Nothing of substance, of course - she dared not speak her mind with all the Vale knights around. Brave men, to be sure - they had already repelled a small band of bandits that had struck on the second day of their journey - but brave men with loose tongues, and an affinity for lordly bronze.
Or perhaps even royal gold.
And so she rode her mule, feeling it slowly rubbing her thighs raw as they wound their way slowly though the peaks, descending inch by inch to the coastline. The sea, when they first saw it, was calm and pristine, tiny little waves gently rocking the ship in port.
They all dismounted their mules with gusto, taking a night to bathe and rest from the road, and then they were aboard the Merling King and away.
Sansa could swear that the moment land slipped from sight, the storm started.
The wind blowing fierce and true, rain pelting the deck, men screaming to take down the sails. Sansa sat huddled away from it all in the darkness of her cabin, feeling vaguely sick as the floor beneath her rocked and rolled from side to side. And for the first time since she had seen his head come off, Petyr returned to haunt her.
She saw his box - the little lidded basket that seemed perfectly sized. Nestor had kept it hidden from her till now. She saw the clasp at the front, and felt the irresistible urge to flick it open and take a look inside at her former father. At the man she had killed.
Instead, Sansa pulled close a bucket from the corner and turned up her guts into it. And there she sat for the rest of the night, listening to Petyr whisper to her from inside the basket draped with shadows, huddling a bucket of her own vomit for comfort. They found her like that the next morning, red eyes staring, her muscles stiff, her back sore, her dress ruined.
"M'lady?" Lothor asked, eyes slanted with concern.
Sansa patted the bucket, shook her head. "I'm well enough, ser. Just give me a moment."
Lothor lingered a second, watching her gaze. He seemed hesitant a moment, then said: "It doesn't do to dwell on it, m'lady. Most men lose their stomach their first kill. The feeling will pass, given time."
Sansa kept her peace, stared sullenly at the basket.
Lothor nodded and backed away from the door of the cabin. Sansa sat a few moments longer, then pushed her bucket away - its content sloshing dangerously close to the rim - and slowly gathered herself. In spite herself, she continued eyeing the basket, frozen in place as she rose to her feet. But it was not guilt that held her still now, but rage. You only wanted to rape me, she told the basket, to use me for your own advancement. You never cared.
Yet even as she turned away with a scowl etched into her face, Sansa knew it wasn't quite true. Petyr had cared. In his own twisted way, perhaps, but he cared.
And now she had nobody.
No, Sansa told herself, you have Arya. Your sister.
If she's still alive, that is.
The rest of the journey, Sansa avoided that cabin. She changed her dress, watched Lothor empty out the contents of her bucket, and every time her mind began to wander, she tried to cast her thoughts elsewhere. Days passed with her observing the hurried workings of the ship's Braavosi crew. She ate what little she could stomach in silence - despite Lothor's meagre attempts to distract and amuse her - thinking only of Arya. She watched the coastline lazily drift past from the deck. Watched the waves of the sea grow and shrink, at one point threatening another storm before retreating back into calm. Watched the clouds above darken twice with drizzle.
Before long, they had passed the Bay of Crabs and Cracklaw Point, and off in the distance Sansa sighted the dark spires and ghoulish stone eyes of Dragonstone. The same day they passed by Duskendale, Kings Landing emerged above the horizon.
Sansa braced herself, donned her second-finest dress, waited. The feeling of Arya's letter - crumpled and worn as it was - tucked beneath her dress soothed her. They pulled into Blackwater Bay slowly, the three high hills of the city visible above the walls. Much of the devastation of the city that war had wrought appeared undone, far as she could tell. Though the smell, when it hit her, was just as strong as she remembered.
Again, Lord Nestor led the way, descending down the gangplank with Vale knights at his flanks. They were greeted by a small group, and led to the keep as honoured guests of the king. Guests in gilded cages, Sansa thought, wringing her hands as she watched Lord Nestor through the window of her litter. Her seat shook rhythmically with the uneven stride of the men carrying her. A pair of goldcloaks passed by, chattering with each other as they cast their gaze about. A man pushed a barrow laden with what looked like lumber into an alley. In the distance, Sansa could see scaffolds.
She looked everywhere but the Red Keep, but she could avoid her destination no longer. Her litter stopped moving, and gently was settled onto the ground. Taking Lothor's offered hand, Sansa exited to face the castle she had fled, drawing in a deep breath to calm herself. A guardsman greeted Lord Nestor.
"My lord," he began with a bow, "His Grace awaits you on his terrace."
Lord Nestor's only response was a curt nod. They began their trek through the Red Keep together, lord and lady and a few knights. The rest of the men split off, and were led to a different part of the keep, to their quarters. Sansa kept her head bowed as she went, gaze fixed to her feet. She felt sick again.
You're an idiot, she found herself thinking. You fled from this place, didn't you? And yet here you are, like a mouse lured by cheese.
Through the keep they went, Sansa's shoes falling on uncomfortably familiar flagstones. Up some steps. Round two bends. And into the Lion's den.
Guardsmen eyed her approach, all clad in royal colours. But undoubtedly some were Westermen, and some were Reachmen. And likely some were Dornishmen and Valemen and Riverlanders and Stormlanders and perhaps a few Northmen too. How many of those who lined their approach were of the city below? How many crownlanders were left? Two-thirds? Half? Less?
One bowed as they approached, ushering them through. "His Grace is expecting you, m'lord, m'lady."
They went forwards, only for the spears to descend.
Lord Nestor scowled. "What is the meaning of this?" he hissed.
"Only the two of you, m'lord."
Sansa shot an uneasy glance Lothor's way, her every instinct screaming at her to turn and run, to make for the nearest ledge and leap away to freedom. She felt dizzy, as though she might suddenly fall over, or vomit again. But somehow she kept her head, and before she knew it Lord Nestor had given his assent.
She saw Cersei first, eyes cold and cruel. Then Tyrion, laughing at something he'd just said. Then Tywin, sat calmly, surveying the room.
And finally, Tommen, strangely ridiculous sat behind his desk, almost hiding behind heaps of parchment.
Lord Nestor eyed the Old Lion a moment, uncertain how to proceed. But Lord Tywin did not take the lead, and Lord Nestor turned his gaze instead to the young lad.
"Your Grace," he said with a shallow bow. "I have come to bend the knee, on behalf of the Lord Protector of the Vale."
Tommen's eyes flicked over Lord Nestor, seemingly not even noting her presence in the room. "You have come bearing gifts, I trust?"
Lord Nestor removed the basket from it's place beneath his arm, and presented it to the king. "Littlefinger's head, Your Grace."
Tommen gestured with his head, and Tyrion hopped off his seat, took the offered basket, and waddled over to hand it to his king. Tommen promptly flipped open the lid and pulled out Petyr's head, studying it's rotting features intently as though they were the pages of a book, a look of mild revulsion on his face.
Bulging eyes, skin drawn tight over bone, mottled and cracked to show sinew and muscle beneath, hair coming away in clumps in Tommen's little hands. The neck appeared to have developed a touch of fungus. The tongue was swollen in the mouth, pressing against yellow, dead teeth.
Sansa could scarcely stop herself from retching. She gagged, looked away, tried to stop herself from crying. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. With the stench of the city thick like a fog in the air, she had forgotten about the smell of the rotting head. But up here, overlooking the sea, the reminder of what she'd done seemed overpowering.
Tommen, having inspected the head to his satisfaction, promptly threw it at Cersei, who fumbled it a moment before her fingers found purchase on Petyr's rotted flesh.
"There. Just as I promised. Justice for your Joffrey," was his curt explanation.
Tommen wiped his hands on his tunic, gestured for Lord Nestor to sit with a smile that suddenly seemed a great deal more sinister than she remembered. "Consider the Lord Protector's knee bent, my lord."
Hands ever-so-slightly trembling, Sansa silently claimed her seat besides Lord Nestor.
"I expect you have some questions, my lord."
Nestor nodded hesitantly. "A few, Your Grace."
Tommen's smile widened an inch, the dark circles under his eyes shifting with the light like shadows. "Uncle, mother, if you would please," he said, gesturing at the door, delivering an order as though it was a request.
Sansa could feel Tyrion's misshapen eyes on the side of her face as he hopped off his seat, though she dared not meet her once-betrothed's gaze. Behind her, she heard Cersei make for the door, head still in hand. And then they were alone.
"I have been asking myself one question since I departed the Eyrie," Lord Nestor tentatively began. "The same question, I suspect, that many of the Vale lords have been asking themselves in recent weeks. Why? Why would Lord Yohn send down to Kings Landing a Stark? Not the last Stark, perhaps, but still an heir to the North. Lady Lysa's niece. What could possibly be worth that sort of sacrifice?"
Tommen nodded. "I see. Well, far be it for me to speculate as to Lord Yohn's state of mind. But fair to say that he and I have developed an... understanding."
"You offered him the Vale."
Tommen's face scrunched slightly, as though in thought. "Best to beware an old man in young man's game, no? How old is Bronze Yohn? In his fifties now? The Lord Protector may be an honourable man, but that doesn't mean he's a fool. If he'd wanted to seize the Vale outright, I doubt he needs my assent."
"Then what?"
"Lord Yohn is both clever and honourable. He wouldn't stoop so low as to steal a young lad's rightful inheritance out from under him. But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel the urge. He knows this war is lost. Day by day, the Iron Throne reasserts itself. The Riverlords are broken. The Reachlords seduced. The Dornish tamed. The Stormlords decapitated. And the Northerners are soon to be buried beneath a mountain of snow and ice, hollowed and starving. Only the Iron Islanders are left insolent - though I assure you their defiance will not last. The Vale may be a fortress impregnable to armies, but it is not impregnable to assassins, spies, embargoes, turncloaks. And pressing a claim to the North would require venturing from even that imperfect fortress."
"The Vale lords know all this too. And most of us were against sending Lady Sansa down."
"What all the Vale lords don't know," Lord Tywin finally decided to say, "is that Robert Arryn is not an Arryn."
Sansa felt her mouth hang open. It made sense, in a strange sort of way. She'd heard tell of Petyr's duel with her uncle for her mother's hand. Of how he'd been in his youth. Short and slight. All she'd heard of Jon Arryn from her father seemed almost the opposite. But Jon Arryn was old, she reasoned. His seed was weak.
But Lord Walder was old too, wasn't he? And he was still spawning heirs. And Aunt Lysa had always loved Petyr, hadn't she? Had been willing to push Sansa through the Moon Door for that love, when she thought it was being stolen from her.
Again, the nausea hit her. "You've sentenced a child to die."
For the first time since she'd arrived, Tommen turned his gaze to study her. Her pale skin, gaunt face, tired eyes. The smile slipped off his face to reveal something resembling pity. "One life for thousands is, I think, a fair trade."
Lord Nestor's gaze sharpened as his eyes flicked between grandson and grandfather. "Have you any proof?"
"Did Lord Stannis have any proof before he declared me illegitimate? Did Lord Eddard? Did any of the Vale lords who rushed to try and compel Lady Lysa to join them? We just finished fighting a war started because of the colour of my brother's hair." Tommen shrugged. "In any case, I said Lord Yohn was clever, didn't I? Do you think he'd believe it just because I said it? Or do you think he'd seek out the young Lord Robert and look for himself? He's taken the young boy under his custody in part, I suspect, to watch him. To see if he can't bring out some of that Arryn blood. If he succeeds, he'll have ingratiated himself into the next Lord Paramount's inner circle. Young Lord Robert will likely wed a Royce. And Lord Yohn can take credit for resettling relations between a resurgent crown and the Vale. But if not..." Tommen let the prospect hang in the air.
"It'll mean war. And Yohn will have the crown standing behind him."
"Perhaps it'll be a fever, or a bout of the young lord's shaking. Or perhaps a mountain clan raid. Or perhaps young Lord Robert will simply develop different interests. In any case, I think Lord Yohn clever enough to manage this without a war. But yes, he'd have the crown's support, if it ever came to it."
Nestor was silent a moment, his head cocked in thought. "I have just one final question, Your Grace. Why tell me all this?"
"You closed the Gates of the Moon against the Lords Declarant, against your own kin. You served Jon Arryn faithfully for fourteen long years. And now you have a keep for yourself, a legacy to leave your son." Tommen leaned back in his seat a moment to study the bearded lord. "I don't think Yohn fears you, but he would be a fool not to be wary. That's why he sent you all the way down here, no? A punishment. For turning on the family."
Nestor frowned. "You want me to work against him?"
"No, of course not. But for all his honour, I know better than to trust Yohn outright. The man holds no lost love for anyone with Lannister blood."
"So I am to be your eyes? Don't you already have spies?"
Tommen waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I have eyes aplenty. And a few ears as well. Plenty in the shadows, but regrettably little in the light. Work with me, Lord Nestor, and though I'll not ask you to declare your newfound allegiances, I'll not ask you to make a secret of it either. I assure you I'll ask no more of you than I ask of any lord, and in return, I'll help guarantee that legacy you want to leave your son."
"And if I refuse? If I walk out this room and tell all the Vale of what you've told me?"
"It'll start a diplomatic row, no doubt. But it won't hurt me much. I expect the Vale lords will be too busy thinking on the succession of their own realm. Some will back the boy lord. Others Bronze Yohn. War may well become inevitable, but it won't be my men fighting. And it probably won't last long. And though you will be allowed to leave this city unharmed - for the crown does not break guest right - you will have made a powerful enemy." The smile returned to that young face. "Remember, my lord. Assassins, spies, embargoes, turncloaks. You want to walk away? Fair enough, that is your right. And who knows, I may be feeling merciful. But if I'm not, are you really prepared to spend the rest of your like sleeping with one eye open?"
"Supporting you makes me a target," Lord Nestor retorted. He's asking for a bigger bribe, Sansa realised.
"All life is risk," Tywin agreed. "But with risk comes reward."
Nestor's boldness seemed to wane in the face of Tywin's renewed involvement. Even through the beard, Sansa could see his expression shift through a multitude of emotions as his gaze flicked between the Boy King and his grandfather. Wariness, fear, a renewed sense of ambition tempered by some caution.
Sansa felt a spike of disgust towards Lord Nestor as she observed his profile. Her gaze drifted to Tommen, searching for any semblance of the boy she had known. "Arya," she finally blurted out, her patience wearing thin. "Where is Arya?"
"Rest assured she is well, my lady."
"I want to see her."
Tommen nodded, shot a look to his grandfather. A curt nod was the Old Lion's reply. "Come, my lady," Tommen said, rising from his seat. "Let me take you to your sister."
Sansa followed Tommen from the terrace, not sparing a parting glance for Lord Nestor. Lothor awaited her outside. He tried to approach her, only for Tommen's men to lower their spears again. Sansa hesitated.
"You trust this man?" Tommen asked.
Sansa did not trust her tongue enough to offer reply.
Tommen merely chuckled, shook his head, and carried on, offering her his arm. Through the halls they went, up stone steps without an escort. Does Tommen have no fear? she wondered. Even in Maegor's Holdfast, kings were usually accompanied by their kingsguard. Here, she got some of the childishness that she remembered, though by now it seemed more alarming to her than endearing. Tommen walked with a jaunt in his step, bounding up stairs and practically skipping along. He offered a smile and nod to a passing serving-girl.
"Why are you so happy?" Sansa asked him.
"Few greater joys than seeing the rewards of a well-taken risk," Tommen said, turning on his heel and gesturing to a heavy oaken door.
Sansa pointed to the door with trembling fingers. "I-in there?"
Tommen nodded, and she pressed her palm flat against the wood and pushed. Inside was a relatively humble room. Two beds, two chests, a privy in the corner, a window overlooking the bay. On one side was a hulking woman, dirty blonde tresses grown out to her shoulders, clad in a studded leather jerkin, gloved hands working a whetstone over the edge of her blade.
And in the other was a scruffy-looking boy-girl. Shaggy, uneven black hair that fell down to the nape of her neck. She wore some green hose, a tunic with a tight-waisted doublet overtop, a dagger hanging off the belt around her hips. Sansa stopped and stared. Arya's hair was brown, not black. Then the girl raised her head, and grey eyes met blue.
Stark eyes, Sansa thought, and then she was wrapped in the tightest embrace of her life, tears streaming down both their cheeks. To the touch, Arya felt both plump and wiry. Her arms were so strong. Whatever suffering she might have endured, Tommen had clearly not tormented Arya as Joffrey had tortured her. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," Sansa breathlessly cried as she squeezed her sister tight. It had been her fault, after all. Her fault their father had lost his life. And though in her letter Arya had offered her forgiveness, Sansa had yet to apologise.
It took a fair few minutes, but finally they parted, Sansa clinging tightly to Arya's hand, unwilling to let go lest she lose her only remaining family in the world. Arya stared at her for a long moment, eyes red, the corners of her mouth indecisive between a grin and a scowl.
"You need to eat something," she finally said, poking Sansa's hollow stomach.
Sansa's silent tears became a strangled laugh, and Arya let her go. The next few moments seemed a blur. They talked of everything and nothing without saying a word, heads spinning with the euphoria of reunion and the crushing burden of regret. Sansa opened her mouth and struggled to make her tongue do her mind's bidding.
"Dame Brienne?" the king gently broke in. Dame? "Don't you think we should give the sisters some time?"
Sansa saw Brienne's eyes, previously transfixed by her face, mouth slightly agape, break away with an embarrassed nod. "Of course, Your Grace."
And so, for the first time in years, they were free to speak.
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Apologies for the extreme delay. Work has been insane. Hopefully I can soon re-establish some regular schedule for updates, but no guarantees for now.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!
P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
Besides the occasional braying of the mules, the sounds of hooves and feet on dirt, and the whispers of the wind, the journey west from the Eyrie so far had been unsettlingly quiet.
Had she been misled? Were not these peaks thick with mountain clans, mountain lions, and wild bears? So far all she had seen was a smattering of mangy goats, lazily chewing on the few tufts of grass that dared poke through the thin sheen of snow that had settled over the past few days atop the peaks and cliffs.
And so they went, moving as one large mass of steel and men, Lord Nestor still glowering bitter at the helm. Sansa avoided him as best she could. She was sure he wouldn't hurt her, but she had been wrong before. And so instead she stayed near the middle of the pack the entire way along, eyeing the back of Lord Nestor's head, occasionally exchanging thoughts with Lothor Brune out of boredom as she went.
Nothing of substance, of course - she dared not speak her mind with all the Vale knights around. Brave men, to be sure - they had already repelled a small band of bandits that had struck on the second day of their journey - but brave men with loose tongues, and an affinity for lordly bronze.
Or perhaps even royal gold.
And so she rode her mule, feeling it slowly rubbing her thighs raw as they wound their way slowly though the peaks, descending inch by inch to the coastline. The sea, when they first saw it, was calm and pristine, tiny little waves gently rocking the ship in port.
They all dismounted their mules with gusto, taking a night to bathe and rest from the road, and then they were aboard the Merling King and away.
Sansa could swear that the moment land slipped from sight, the storm started.
The wind blowing fierce and true, rain pelting the deck, men screaming to take down the sails. Sansa sat huddled away from it all in the darkness of her cabin, feeling vaguely sick as the floor beneath her rocked and rolled from side to side. And for the first time since she had seen his head come off, Petyr returned to haunt her.
She saw his box - the little lidded basket that seemed perfectly sized. Nestor had kept it hidden from her till now. She saw the clasp at the front, and felt the irresistible urge to flick it open and take a look inside at her former father. At the man she had killed.
Instead, Sansa pulled close a bucket from the corner and turned up her guts into it. And there she sat for the rest of the night, listening to Petyr whisper to her from inside the basket draped with shadows, huddling a bucket of her own vomit for comfort. They found her like that the next morning, red eyes staring, her muscles stiff, her back sore, her dress ruined.
"M'lady?" Lothor asked, eyes slanted with concern.
Sansa patted the bucket, shook her head. "I'm well enough, ser. Just give me a moment."
Lothor lingered a second, watching her gaze. He seemed hesitant a moment, then said: "It doesn't do to dwell on it, m'lady. Most men lose their stomach their first kill. The feeling will pass, given time."
Sansa kept her peace, stared sullenly at the basket.
Lothor nodded and backed away from the door of the cabin. Sansa sat a few moments longer, then pushed her bucket away - its content sloshing dangerously close to the rim - and slowly gathered herself. In spite herself, she continued eyeing the basket, frozen in place as she rose to her feet. But it was not guilt that held her still now, but rage. You only wanted to rape me, she told the basket, to use me for your own advancement. You never cared.
Yet even as she turned away with a scowl etched into her face, Sansa knew it wasn't quite true. Petyr had cared. In his own twisted way, perhaps, but he cared.
And now she had nobody.
No, Sansa told herself, you have Arya. Your sister.
If she's still alive, that is.
The rest of the journey, Sansa avoided that cabin. She changed her dress, watched Lothor empty out the contents of her bucket, and every time her mind began to wander, she tried to cast her thoughts elsewhere. Days passed with her observing the hurried workings of the ship's Braavosi crew. She ate what little she could stomach in silence - despite Lothor's meagre attempts to distract and amuse her - thinking only of Arya. She watched the coastline lazily drift past from the deck. Watched the waves of the sea grow and shrink, at one point threatening another storm before retreating back into calm. Watched the clouds above darken twice with drizzle.
Before long, they had passed the Bay of Crabs and Cracklaw Point, and off in the distance Sansa sighted the dark spires and ghoulish stone eyes of Dragonstone. The same day they passed by Duskendale, Kings Landing emerged above the horizon.
Sansa braced herself, donned her second-finest dress, waited. The feeling of Arya's letter - crumpled and worn as it was - tucked beneath her dress soothed her. They pulled into Blackwater Bay slowly, the three high hills of the city visible above the walls. Much of the devastation of the city that war had wrought appeared undone, far as she could tell. Though the smell, when it hit her, was just as strong as she remembered.
Again, Lord Nestor led the way, descending down the gangplank with Vale knights at his flanks. They were greeted by a small group, and led to the keep as honoured guests of the king. Guests in gilded cages, Sansa thought, wringing her hands as she watched Lord Nestor through the window of her litter. Her seat shook rhythmically with the uneven stride of the men carrying her. A pair of goldcloaks passed by, chattering with each other as they cast their gaze about. A man pushed a barrow laden with what looked like lumber into an alley. In the distance, Sansa could see scaffolds.
She looked everywhere but the Red Keep, but she could avoid her destination no longer. Her litter stopped moving, and gently was settled onto the ground. Taking Lothor's offered hand, Sansa exited to face the castle she had fled, drawing in a deep breath to calm herself. A guardsman greeted Lord Nestor.
"My lord," he began with a bow, "His Grace awaits you on his terrace."
Lord Nestor's only response was a curt nod. They began their trek through the Red Keep together, lord and lady and a few knights. The rest of the men split off, and were led to a different part of the keep, to their quarters. Sansa kept her head bowed as she went, gaze fixed to her feet. She felt sick again.
You're an idiot, she found herself thinking. You fled from this place, didn't you? And yet here you are, like a mouse lured by cheese.
Through the keep they went, Sansa's shoes falling on uncomfortably familiar flagstones. Up some steps. Round two bends. And into the Lion's den.
Guardsmen eyed her approach, all clad in royal colours. But undoubtedly some were Westermen, and some were Reachmen. And likely some were Dornishmen and Valemen and Riverlanders and Stormlanders and perhaps a few Northmen too. How many of those who lined their approach were of the city below? How many crownlanders were left? Two-thirds? Half? Less?
One bowed as they approached, ushering them through. "His Grace is expecting you, m'lord, m'lady."
They went forwards, only for the spears to descend.
Lord Nestor scowled. "What is the meaning of this?" he hissed.
"Only the two of you, m'lord."
Sansa shot an uneasy glance Lothor's way, her every instinct screaming at her to turn and run, to make for the nearest ledge and leap away to freedom. She felt dizzy, as though she might suddenly fall over, or vomit again. But somehow she kept her head, and before she knew it Lord Nestor had given his assent.
She saw Cersei first, eyes cold and cruel. Then Tyrion, laughing at something he'd just said. Then Tywin, sat calmly, surveying the room.
And finally, Tommen, strangely ridiculous sat behind his desk, almost hiding behind heaps of parchment.
Lord Nestor eyed the Old Lion a moment, uncertain how to proceed. But Lord Tywin did not take the lead, and Lord Nestor turned his gaze instead to the young lad.
"Your Grace," he said with a shallow bow. "I have come to bend the knee, on behalf of the Lord Protector of the Vale."
Tommen's eyes flicked over Lord Nestor, seemingly not even noting her presence in the room. "You have come bearing gifts, I trust?"
Lord Nestor removed the basket from it's place beneath his arm, and presented it to the king. "Littlefinger's head, Your Grace."
Tommen gestured with his head, and Tyrion hopped off his seat, took the offered basket, and waddled over to hand it to his king. Tommen promptly flipped open the lid and pulled out Petyr's head, studying it's rotting features intently as though they were the pages of a book, a look of mild revulsion on his face.
Bulging eyes, skin drawn tight over bone, mottled and cracked to show sinew and muscle beneath, hair coming away in clumps in Tommen's little hands. The neck appeared to have developed a touch of fungus. The tongue was swollen in the mouth, pressing against yellow, dead teeth.
Sansa could scarcely stop herself from retching. She gagged, looked away, tried to stop herself from crying. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. With the stench of the city thick like a fog in the air, she had forgotten about the smell of the rotting head. But up here, overlooking the sea, the reminder of what she'd done seemed overpowering.
Tommen, having inspected the head to his satisfaction, promptly threw it at Cersei, who fumbled it a moment before her fingers found purchase on Petyr's rotted flesh.
"There. Just as I promised. Justice for your Joffrey," was his curt explanation.
Tommen wiped his hands on his tunic, gestured for Lord Nestor to sit with a smile that suddenly seemed a great deal more sinister than she remembered. "Consider the Lord Protector's knee bent, my lord."
Hands ever-so-slightly trembling, Sansa silently claimed her seat besides Lord Nestor.
"I expect you have some questions, my lord."
Nestor nodded hesitantly. "A few, Your Grace."
Tommen's smile widened an inch, the dark circles under his eyes shifting with the light like shadows. "Uncle, mother, if you would please," he said, gesturing at the door, delivering an order as though it was a request.
Sansa could feel Tyrion's misshapen eyes on the side of her face as he hopped off his seat, though she dared not meet her once-betrothed's gaze. Behind her, she heard Cersei make for the door, head still in hand. And then they were alone.
"I have been asking myself one question since I departed the Eyrie," Lord Nestor tentatively began. "The same question, I suspect, that many of the Vale lords have been asking themselves in recent weeks. Why? Why would Lord Yohn send down to Kings Landing a Stark? Not the last Stark, perhaps, but still an heir to the North. Lady Lysa's niece. What could possibly be worth that sort of sacrifice?"
Tommen nodded. "I see. Well, far be it for me to speculate as to Lord Yohn's state of mind. But fair to say that he and I have developed an... understanding."
"You offered him the Vale."
Tommen's face scrunched slightly, as though in thought. "Best to beware an old man in young man's game, no? How old is Bronze Yohn? In his fifties now? The Lord Protector may be an honourable man, but that doesn't mean he's a fool. If he'd wanted to seize the Vale outright, I doubt he needs my assent."
"Then what?"
"Lord Yohn is both clever and honourable. He wouldn't stoop so low as to steal a young lad's rightful inheritance out from under him. But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel the urge. He knows this war is lost. Day by day, the Iron Throne reasserts itself. The Riverlords are broken. The Reachlords seduced. The Dornish tamed. The Stormlords decapitated. And the Northerners are soon to be buried beneath a mountain of snow and ice, hollowed and starving. Only the Iron Islanders are left insolent - though I assure you their defiance will not last. The Vale may be a fortress impregnable to armies, but it is not impregnable to assassins, spies, embargoes, turncloaks. And pressing a claim to the North would require venturing from even that imperfect fortress."
"The Vale lords know all this too. And most of us were against sending Lady Sansa down."
"What all the Vale lords don't know," Lord Tywin finally decided to say, "is that Robert Arryn is not an Arryn."
Sansa felt her mouth hang open. It made sense, in a strange sort of way. She'd heard tell of Petyr's duel with her uncle for her mother's hand. Of how he'd been in his youth. Short and slight. All she'd heard of Jon Arryn from her father seemed almost the opposite. But Jon Arryn was old, she reasoned. His seed was weak.
But Lord Walder was old too, wasn't he? And he was still spawning heirs. And Aunt Lysa had always loved Petyr, hadn't she? Had been willing to push Sansa through the Moon Door for that love, when she thought it was being stolen from her.
Again, the nausea hit her. "You've sentenced a child to die."
For the first time since she'd arrived, Tommen turned his gaze to study her. Her pale skin, gaunt face, tired eyes. The smile slipped off his face to reveal something resembling pity. "One life for thousands is, I think, a fair trade."
Lord Nestor's gaze sharpened as his eyes flicked between grandson and grandfather. "Have you any proof?"
"Did Lord Stannis have any proof before he declared me illegitimate? Did Lord Eddard? Did any of the Vale lords who rushed to try and compel Lady Lysa to join them? We just finished fighting a war started because of the colour of my brother's hair." Tommen shrugged. "In any case, I said Lord Yohn was clever, didn't I? Do you think he'd believe it just because I said it? Or do you think he'd seek out the young Lord Robert and look for himself? He's taken the young boy under his custody in part, I suspect, to watch him. To see if he can't bring out some of that Arryn blood. If he succeeds, he'll have ingratiated himself into the next Lord Paramount's inner circle. Young Lord Robert will likely wed a Royce. And Lord Yohn can take credit for resettling relations between a resurgent crown and the Vale. But if not..." Tommen let the prospect hang in the air.
"It'll mean war. And Yohn will have the crown standing behind him."
"Perhaps it'll be a fever, or a bout of the young lord's shaking. Or perhaps a mountain clan raid. Or perhaps young Lord Robert will simply develop different interests. In any case, I think Lord Yohn clever enough to manage this without a war. But yes, he'd have the crown's support, if it ever came to it."
Nestor was silent a moment, his head cocked in thought. "I have just one final question, Your Grace. Why tell me all this?"
"You closed the Gates of the Moon against the Lords Declarant, against your own kin. You served Jon Arryn faithfully for fourteen long years. And now you have a keep for yourself, a legacy to leave your son." Tommen leaned back in his seat a moment to study the bearded lord. "I don't think Yohn fears you, but he would be a fool not to be wary. That's why he sent you all the way down here, no? A punishment. For turning on the family."
Nestor frowned. "You want me to work against him?"
"No, of course not. But for all his honour, I know better than to trust Yohn outright. The man holds no lost love for anyone with Lannister blood."
"So I am to be your eyes? Don't you already have spies?"
Tommen waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I have eyes aplenty. And a few ears as well. Plenty in the shadows, but regrettably little in the light. Work with me, Lord Nestor, and though I'll not ask you to declare your newfound allegiances, I'll not ask you to make a secret of it either. I assure you I'll ask no more of you than I ask of any lord, and in return, I'll help guarantee that legacy you want to leave your son."
"And if I refuse? If I walk out this room and tell all the Vale of what you've told me?"
"It'll start a diplomatic row, no doubt. But it won't hurt me much. I expect the Vale lords will be too busy thinking on the succession of their own realm. Some will back the boy lord. Others Bronze Yohn. War may well become inevitable, but it won't be my men fighting. And it probably won't last long. And though you will be allowed to leave this city unharmed - for the crown does not break guest right - you will have made a powerful enemy." The smile returned to that young face. "Remember, my lord. Assassins, spies, embargoes, turncloaks. You want to walk away? Fair enough, that is your right. And who knows, I may be feeling merciful. But if I'm not, are you really prepared to spend the rest of your like sleeping with one eye open?"
"Supporting you makes me a target," Lord Nestor retorted. He's asking for a bigger bribe, Sansa realised.
"All life is risk," Tywin agreed. "But with risk comes reward."
Nestor's boldness seemed to wane in the face of Tywin's renewed involvement. Even through the beard, Sansa could see his expression shift through a multitude of emotions as his gaze flicked between the Boy King and his grandfather. Wariness, fear, a renewed sense of ambition tempered by some caution.
Sansa felt a spike of disgust towards Lord Nestor as she observed his profile. Her gaze drifted to Tommen, searching for any semblance of the boy she had known. "Arya," she finally blurted out, her patience wearing thin. "Where is Arya?"
"Rest assured she is well, my lady."
"I want to see her."
Tommen nodded, shot a look to his grandfather. A curt nod was the Old Lion's reply. "Come, my lady," Tommen said, rising from his seat. "Let me take you to your sister."
Sansa followed Tommen from the terrace, not sparing a parting glance for Lord Nestor. Lothor awaited her outside. He tried to approach her, only for Tommen's men to lower their spears again. Sansa hesitated.
"You trust this man?" Tommen asked.
Sansa did not trust her tongue enough to offer reply.
Tommen merely chuckled, shook his head, and carried on, offering her his arm. Through the halls they went, up stone steps without an escort. Does Tommen have no fear? she wondered. Even in Maegor's Holdfast, kings were usually accompanied by their kingsguard. Here, she got some of the childishness that she remembered, though by now it seemed more alarming to her than endearing. Tommen walked with a jaunt in his step, bounding up stairs and practically skipping along. He offered a smile and nod to a passing serving-girl.
"Why are you so happy?" Sansa asked him.
"Few greater joys than seeing the rewards of a well-taken risk," Tommen said, turning on his heel and gesturing to a heavy oaken door.
Sansa pointed to the door with trembling fingers. "I-in there?"
Tommen nodded, and she pressed her palm flat against the wood and pushed. Inside was a relatively humble room. Two beds, two chests, a privy in the corner, a window overlooking the bay. On one side was a hulking woman, dirty blonde tresses grown out to her shoulders, clad in a studded leather jerkin, gloved hands working a whetstone over the edge of her blade.
And in the other was a scruffy-looking boy-girl. Shaggy, uneven black hair that fell down to the nape of her neck. She wore some green hose, a tunic with a tight-waisted doublet overtop, a dagger hanging off the belt around her hips. Sansa stopped and stared. Arya's hair was brown, not black. Then the girl raised her head, and grey eyes met blue.
Stark eyes, Sansa thought, and then she was wrapped in the tightest embrace of her life, tears streaming down both their cheeks. To the touch, Arya felt both plump and wiry. Her arms were so strong. Whatever suffering she might have endured, Tommen had clearly not tormented Arya as Joffrey had tortured her. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," Sansa breathlessly cried as she squeezed her sister tight. It had been her fault, after all. Her fault their father had lost his life. And though in her letter Arya had offered her forgiveness, Sansa had yet to apologise.
It took a fair few minutes, but finally they parted, Sansa clinging tightly to Arya's hand, unwilling to let go lest she lose her only remaining family in the world. Arya stared at her for a long moment, eyes red, the corners of her mouth indecisive between a grin and a scowl.
"You need to eat something," she finally said, poking Sansa's hollow stomach.
Sansa's silent tears became a strangled laugh, and Arya let her go. The next few moments seemed a blur. They talked of everything and nothing without saying a word, heads spinning with the euphoria of reunion and the crushing burden of regret. Sansa opened her mouth and struggled to make her tongue do her mind's bidding.
"Dame Brienne?" the king gently broke in. Dame? "Don't you think we should give the sisters some time?"
Sansa saw Brienne's eyes, previously transfixed by her face, mouth slightly agape, break away with an embarrassed nod. "Of course, Your Grace."
And so, for the first time in years, they were free to speak.
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Apologies for the extreme delay. Work has been insane. Hopefully I can soon re-establish some regular schedule for updates, but no guarantees for now.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!
P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
