Chapter Text
Sansa somehow becomes the confidante of the young Tyrell relations, the ones who are betrothed and know more than most girls but less than married women do. They gasp and giggle and look at her through the fingers covering their faces, but they also shyly confess trying some of the things they discuss and admit to how much they enjoy it.
She asks Willas to show her more than she already knows, and she finds herself sharing his bed more and more often, not only for the pleasures he offers her, but also simply to sleep. When her moonblood comes, she feels a vague disappointment, even though she knows it’s for the best.
She is uncomfortable sleeping beside Willas for the duration, and he ferrets out the reason after the first night. He doesn’t tell her she’s silly or pull away from her in disgust. He tells her her comfort is always his priority and makes sure she’s well kissed before she goes to her bed each night.
She is aware that there is an entire realm outside her small pocket of happiness. She knows war continues to loom, but it seems so far away from her and the Tyrell apartments.
And then, one morning, as Sansa and Willas are finishing breaking their fast, Oberyn throws open the door to their solar without an invitation or even the basic courtesy of a knock.
“I’ve had a raven from Doran,” Oberyn says.
Willas dabs at his mouth with his napkin and raises his eyebrows. “And that justifies your grand entrance?”
“I always look to make a grand entrance,” Oberyn says.
Sansa has not spent nearly as much time with him as her husband has, but she knows the truth of his words. There is nothing to be done except gesture to one of the open chairs and offer him what he’d like from the remains of their meal.
“Is Dorne preparing for battle now as well?” Sansa asks.
“This was a far more personal missive,” Oberyn says. “My brother wrote to tell me that your brother was found half-mad with the sun. Apparently, the fool came south with a full northern beard. At least he wasn’t wearing his furs.”
Oh, Sansa thinks. Jon has made it to Dorne. This is what she has been waiting for, news of Jon and his journey. That he is in Dorne and alive, is good news. And, while she still doesn’t know Oberyn well, she believes she has enough measure of his character.
“He is not my brother,” Sansa begins.
Oberyn’s cheer vanishes, a dark look replacing it. “You—”
But before he can work himself into a full temper, Willas places a restraining hand on his arm. “Let her finish, Oberyn,” Willas says.
Sansa looks at her husband, and sees something in him, an acceptance or an understanding, and she wonders if he’s figured it out. She hasn’t given him many clues, barely enough, but perhaps he has guessed, and now he waits to see if she’ll confirm it.
As if he can sense her indecision, Willas reaches out to her and gently squeezes her hand. “It’s alright. You can tell him.”
And Jon will be safe? You swear it? But Sansa can’t ask those questions without giving away the secret, so she may as well simply tell Oberyn. She takes courage from her husband’s presence and says, “Jon is not my brother, not because we do not share a mother but because we don’t share a father either. He is my cousin.”
There. She has said it. Willas squeezes her hand again, another gift of strength, and they watch as the realization crashes over Oberyn’s face. From Sansa doesn’t scorn bastards to cousin to Ned Stark’s nephew to—
“Lyanna and Rhaegar?” Oberyn breathes, as if he cannot even imagine thinking the words, let alone saying them.
Sansa nods. “I’m not sure if he knows. Father never officially told me. But King Robert was putting all the Targaryens to the sword and—”
“You don’t have to defend your father to me,” Oberyn tells her. He leaps to his feet and, at her gasp, goes to his knees before her. He clasps her hands, one of his large hands closing over both her and Willas’s hands, because Prince Oberyn is incapable of a small or subtle gestures. “He lied to save the life of an innocent child. I have done far worse to accomplish the same.”
“He isn’t a child anymore,” Sansa says. “He’s a man and—”
She doesn’t say what else he is, she doesn’t dare, but they all know. The last Targaryen.
“You have my word, he will not be harmed by my family or by Dorne.” Oberyn presses his head to her knees as if is kneeling before the gods and making a solemn vow. When he meets her gaze, his eyes are dark. They are not calm but nor is there a banked fire in them. “Dorne has remained apart, and we would continue to do so as the other kingdoms tore themselves apart over who would sit next on the throne. But it doesn’t mean we want death and destruction to reign across Westeros. If Jon can bring peace, we will support him.”
“Arianne should marry him before he leaves Dorne,” Willas says. He smiles faintly at the twin expressions of shock Sansa and Obyern both wear. “You’re right that Dorne has often remained apart. Bind Dorne to Jon’s cause and return yourself to the fold.”
“The last time,” Oberyn begins, anger hardening his face, but Willas interrupts him easily.
“Bring an army at her back and leave it. Have Jon wear a blindfold whenever he’s at court, so his head won’t be turned by a pretty face. Whatever assurance you need, take them. But if he makes his claim, and he’s unwed, Margaery will be his wife as soon as a septon can be found.”
It isn’t a threat, Sansa realizes, simply a statement of fact. With Jon as the rightful heir, whoever marries him will be queen. Sansa frees one of her hands from Oberyn’s grasp. She puts two fingers under his chin and turns his face toward hers. “It should be Arianne. Whether Jon knows yet or not, it doesn’t change how he was raised. A bastard of Winterfell, who might one day be master-at-arms for Robb or given a small holding to call his own. Arianne is a princess and has been raised to rule.”
“She will have to give up her rights to Dorne,” Willas says. “She will be queen, and it means one of her brothers will be ruling prince of Dorne. Margaery will marry whichever one you choose.”
Oberyn shakes his head, not in disagreement but in disbelief. “There is still so much we must do to make this real instead of fantasy. Renly and Stannis—”
“They don’t want to fight each other,” Sansa says. “They keep waiting, hoping for the other to fold, but the longer they delay, the more stubbornly pride entrenches itself. If Jon declares, and we offer, in good faith, to pardon any who swear to him, they may not take up arms at all.”
“It will take more than the offer of their lives for them to abandon the throne,” Oberyn says.
Sansa is quiet for a moment, thinking back on everything her father told her and everything she observed when she first came to King’s Landing. “Stannis is a good man.” She ignores Oberyn’s snort of laughter. “He is stern, yes, and hard, but he believes in the law. King Robert snubbed him when he gave Storm’s End to Renly. He disrespected Stannis’s marriage bed. If he feels there is a more rightful heir than himself and if he is given the respect he has long been denied, I believe he would be favorable toward our cause.”
Sansa looks to Willas, hoping he will confirm her beliefs. Oberyn looks to him too.
“I agree with Sansa’s assessment,” Willas says. “Though, we must be prepared for the possibility that he will require being named Hand in order to feel satisfied, in addition to having Storm’s End restored to him over Renly.”
“Easy,” Oberyn says. “Dragonstone belongs to the Crown, and it’s not as though Renly will produce any heirs for ancestral lands.”
Willas gives Oberyn a cutting look but doesn’t disagree. “And the other condition?”
Oberyn purses his lips but eventually sighs. “You’re right. I don’t see any other way around it. But Arianne will be queen, and at least half my daughters will serve in her Queensguard, and I’ll take a position on the Small Council. We’ll have enough influence. That only takes care of Stannis. What about Renly?”
“We can get word to Loras,” Willas says, all but confirming Sansa’s suspicion that Loras wasn’t a true hostage. “Renly doesn’t truly want the Crown. He’ll be content being a second brother, attending feasts and jousts. When Stannis grows angry with his brother’s partying, we’ll invite him to Highgarden.”
“The Vale? The Riverlands?” Oberyn looks to Sansa again.
“I will write to Robb,” Sansa says. “He’ll gather his forces and come south. He’ll send word to Riverrun and the Eyrie on the way. The Riverlands will march with him. The Vale is less certain. My cousin Robyn is being raised by the Royces, who hold the Vale in trust until he’s of age. Even if they do not commit to Jon, they will be neutral. They will not align with the Lannisters.”
“Not even Tywin Lannister can take on six of the seven kingdoms and win,” Oberyn says.
“But we still must be smart,” Willas says. “He is crafty, and he has no regards for the rules of war.”
Oberyn makes a small, pained sound in the back of his throat.
“We must win before he even realizes there was a fight,” Willas says. “If we could get the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, or even two of them, Lannister forces would be easily surrounded. Sansa, how much does Robb know?”
Sansa feels the smile that spreads across her face. It stretches, wider and wider, until her cheeks ache at the pull. “Do you know how many times Lady Olenna has asked about the hidden messages in the letters Robb and I write? The message was never hidden. He named his son Torrhen.”
“The king who knelt,” Oberyn says.
“The king who knelt to a Targaryen,” Sansa says quietly. She sees her smile matched on each of their faces. “Robb knows. And I can write a letter that conveys what is needed without alarming anyone if it is intercepted.”
“I cannot tell Doran everything in a raven,” Oberyn admits. “I will have to return to Dorne. I can carry letters for either of you and send them from Sunspear.”
“I’ll send my letter to Loras with you,” Willas says, “but I agree with Sansa. There’s no need to delay hers. However, if we truly mean to do this, we should involve my grandmother.”
“She will be very smug,” Sansa says, because Lady Olenna has been stubbornly trying to sway Sansa towards schemes since Sansa was wed to Willas.
“You’re going to supplant me as her favorite grandchild,” Willas says. He smiles as he says it and kisses the corner of Sansa’s mouth. “But we can’t go from a private meeting my rooms to a private meeting with my grandmother.”
“It won’t be private,” Sansa says. “We’ll have a concert in the next few days. With all the merriment and music, no one will overhear a quiet conversation.”
“And how will we arrange such a thing on short notice?” Oberyn asks.
Sansa allows another smile to steal over her face, this one smug and a little wicked. “Haven’t you heard, Prince Oberyn? Lord Willas is besotted with his young wife and would do anything to please her in order to keep her returning to his bedchambers at night. If I ask for a concert, he will see it done. And if I invite my dear husband’s friend Prince Oberyn and ask for Dornish music to grace our ears as well…” Sansa trails off with mischief in her eyes.
Oberyn laughs, delighted, and finally rises from his knees. “I must see to my own lover. We will await your invitation.” He pauses, a serious expression stealing over his face. “We will see vengeance for those we’ve lost.”
“And we will have peace for those who remain.” Sansa, feeling bold, stands as well. She steps close in close to Prince Oberyn, and she brushes her lips, featherlight, over his cheek.
“You would have made a wonderful princess to one of my nephews,” Oberyn tells her and then he laughs and pretends to run from the room when Willas shakes his cane at him.
#
It is a good thing Sansa is married to Willas and not one of Oberyn’s nephews, because it turns out both nephews will be needed for the plans they make. Lady Olenna listens to Willas’s quiet declaration of their plans so far. It is a slow communication, because it is interrupted by Sansa praising Elinor, Megga, Margaery, and the others who perform. It is interrupted by Oberyn who, when the Dornish music inflames his blood, makes a show of spinning his paramour about the floor before he scandalizes everyone in the room by sliding a hand up her thigh and kissing her.
Eventually, though, they communicate to Lady Olenna what she needs to know, and she agrees with most of it, including that Oberyn needs to go in person to detail everything to Prince Doran. But unlike them, she has the excuse Prince Oberyn needs to return.
“You want me to bring Princess Myrcella with me?” Oberyn repeats, as if he cannot believe what she’s said.
“You have two nephews,” Lady Olenna reminds him. “The younger one, he will make a good match for Myrcella. I would offer up Loras, the gods know they would have the prettiest babies in Westeros, but since no babies would ever be conceived it’s rather a moot point.”
Sansa can see the twist of Oberyn’s mouth, how he’s displeased with the suggestion, but Lady Olenna rolls her eyes.
“You can’t protest her parentage. The Targaryens fucked each other for centuries. The treason bit, that’s on the parents, she’s free of it. And she’s twice the Lannister which will be needed for her to claim Casterly Rock. I know you want revenge, Oberyn Martell. Will taking the seat of House Lannister help?”
Sansa can see the logic in it. She knows they won’t avoid all bloodshed when they put Jon on the throne. The Lannisters are their greatest opponent, which means many of them will die. Enough that Myrcella will be able to claim Casterly Rock. Perhaps even with Lord Tyrion as acting lord until they’re of age. She wonders what will happen to the others. Will Joffrey die? Will Cersei? Ser Jaime?
“You came to King’s Landing looking for a bride for one of your nephews,” Lady Olenna tells Oberyn, since he is still staring at her in shock. “Now that you have found one, you are going to bring her back to Dorne to meet her betrothed. It’s all very touching.”
“No one will believe it,” Oberyn says. “Or allow it.”
“Yes, your hatred of the Lannisters is far from subtle.” Lady Olenna gives him a critical look that he doesn’t cower at. “But while the Old Lion gathers his banners in the West, his sons are here. The Kingslayer will recognize the military value in a betrothal that will keep Dorne either neutral or possibly even on the Crown’s side in the upcoming war against the Baratheon brothers. And the little one will realize it’s an opportunity to get his niece out of the capital and to where she’ll be safe.”
They have been sitting and talking for too long. Sansa stands as a quick-tempo Dornish song begins to play. She holds her hands out to Ellaria Sand and, loudly enough to be heard by those nearest to them, asks, “Will you show me the Dornish dances?”
“I would love to,” Ellaria purrs. She slides her hands around Sansa’s and reels her in.
The whole room stares at them, whispering and giggling as Ellaria moves Sansa about the room. No one pays any mind to the two men Lady Olenna continues to hold court with in the seats.
#
Queen Cersei rages when Prince Oberyn departs for Dorne with his household and Princess Myrcella. Joffrey, who agreed when his uncles suggested the match because he was gleeful at sending his sister away, has taken to teasing Tommen with potential matches. His favorite is Shireen Baratheon, Stannis’s only child and a girl who had apparently contracted grayscale when she was quite young.
“It’s not a half-bad plan,” Lady Olenna comments when she hears it. “If they’re both still alive when this is all over, at least.”
Sansa is at court more often, even though it is dangerous with Cersei in such a temper. As Sansa watches the ripple effects of their first move, everything seems real. She has sat at many a table with Oberyn and Willas, has whispered with Lady Olenna, and when they speak of what needs to be done, it seemed so neat and orderly.
Is that what men feel when they stand around a battle map? If so, she is a green commander, and she is learning what the truly great ones know. Plans are full of predictions and logic, and even if they have back-up plans and what they intend to do if things do not go exactly the way they intend, talk cannot compare to the messiness of reality.
What if Loras does not get the message sent to him? What if he is truly a hostage and not Renly’s lover? What if Stannis decides the Iron Throne is more tempting than duty?
What if, what if, what if.
Sansa is haunted by possibilities. When everything happened with her father, it was so sudden. Her family was in favor and then her father’s head was rolling down the steps. She held a blade to her own throat. What she’s doing now is worse. It is premeditated. It is planned. She is knowingly crossing the Lannisters, who have proved themselves willing to do anything to preserve their own power.
And when she opened her own throat outside the Sept of Baelor, she did it knowing it was the best option. The only ones who loved her were far in the North, and she would never see them again, whether she lived or died. This time, there is so much more to lose.
She tries to distract her thoughts by spending as much time with Willas as possible, but feeling his mouth on her skin, curling up with him after, all it does is reinforce how much she might lose if they’re caught.
A letter comes from the North, from Robb, and Joffrey calls Sansa into court when he reads it aloud. The North has heard of the unrest in the Stormlands, brother against brother, as they rise up against the Crown. Robb, who was named for King Robert, cannot sit idly by any longer. He will call his bannermen and come south, gathering Riverlanders and Valemen as he goes.
It’s a threat and one Joffrey is too stupid to see. Sansa stands tall, shoulders back as Joffrey mocks her and her family, because she knows that she also has family marching from the south and soon Joffrey will be surrounded on all sides.
More ravens come. Rumors spread that Princess Arianne Martell was seduced by Jon Snow, the bastard from the North, and has claimed him as her lover. Others say they are married, that she has given up her name for his and with it, her right to rule Dorne.
Joffrey cackles at the thought of Arianne Snow, thanks Sansa for her family’s loyalty. Sansa smiles prettily and tells Joffrey how handsome and rugged and very northern Jon is. This keeps up for days, until Joffrey is so entertained by the idea of the marriage that he demands the newly wed Snows come to court so that Joffrey can bless their marriage.
Sansa simpers and thanks him for giving her the opportunity to see her dear Jon again and waits to smirk and laugh until she’s in bed with Willas. Joffrey has invited Arianne and Jon to court. He has invited those who will overthrow him, and he is going to welcome them with open gates.
It’s easy to feed Joffrey’s cruelty now. By the time Jon and Arianne arrive, smallfolk line the streets to see the Dornish princess and her bastard husband. There are feasts planned, where Jon and Arianne will sit at the high table so that all can see them and mock them.
Sansa isn’t allowed onto the streets. She has to wait for Jon and Arianne to be escorted to the throne room to see her cousin. The last time she saw him, he was still boyish, his face round and soft, his black curls unruly. Now, his face is slimmer, sharper. He has a few days’ worth of a beard on his face, as if he started growing it as soon as he left the hot Dornish climate. He knows the role he is supposed to play, Northern and savage.
Sansa has never seen Arianne Martell before, but she has heard Oberyn talk about his niece. She is a full head shorter than Jon, even with the extra height given to her by her thick, dark curls. Her skin is brown, and her build is stockier, full hips and breasts, which might have not looked so heavy if she was taller. In almost all ways, she is a contrast to Jon, who is pale and solemn and serious. He wears a fur-trimmed cloak, even in the heat of the capital, for the way it contrasts to Arianne’s light, airy gown.
“Welcome to King’s Landing,” Joffrey says, his eyes practically bulging out of his head with glee. “Are you Princess and Prince Snow or simply the bastard and his whore?”
Even the most terrified of Joffrey’s courtiers don’t dare laugh at this pronouncement. Because while Arianne and Jon have come before the king, they haven’t come alone. There are Dornish guards, and Sansa spots amongst Arianne’s supposed ladies and handmaidens at least three who are Oberyn’s daughters.
There are red cloaks and white cloaks in the room, but there are also green cloaks.
“Thank you for your grand welcome,” Arianne says, and her voice isn’t soft or delicate. It is husky like Prince Oberyn’s, grounded and sure. “I hear there is to be a feast in our honor?”
“We know how your husband hungers,” Joffrey says with a leer at Arianne’s breasts. He stands and makes his way down the steps to where Jon and Arianne stand. He offers his arm to Arianne. “Let me escort you.”
Arianne smiles and rests her hand on his arm. Joffrey smirks at Jon as if he’s won something, before he leads Arianne from the room. A line of Kingsguard follow, separating Jon from his wife.
Once the king has left the room, Sansa rushes to her cousin. He looks alarmed and perhaps she should not run at him like some kind of wraith or madwoman, but she has been so alone and now she isn’t. She throws her arms around Jon’s neck, and holds him tightly. He, far more reluctantly, hugs her back.
“I’m not here to save you,” he whispers in her ear, mournful, guilty.
“You’re here to save us all,” Sansa whispers in return.
When she steps back, Jon stares at her, a dumbfounded expression on his face. Sansa cannot imagine what the past months have been like for him. He has gone from believing he was a highborn bastard to learning the man he called father was not his father but an uncle. That he is a Stark, yes, but a Targaryen too and heir to the throne.
She doesn’t tease him. Instead, she leads him over to where Willas is still standing, leaning on his cane. “Jon, this is my husband, Lord Willas of Highgarden. He is dear friends with Prince Oberyn. They’ve kept me apprised of your arrival in Dorne and marriage to Princess Arianne.”
“You—” Jon still can’t seem to believe that she knows, but he at least has the sense not to say anything incriminating aloud.
Sansa pats his arm consolingly. “We should go to the feast as well. I know your wife has her ladies and her guards, but she’ll feel better with her husband at her side.”
Sansa’s heart pounds so loudly in her chest, she cannot believe no one hears it. It should be like a warning bell, alert every Kingsguard and Lannister loyalist that there is a plot afoot, but no one looks at her twice. She sees Jon to the high table and then joins Willas at the next highest table.
The Kingsguard are near to their king but not all of them. And for every red cloak in the large open courtyard, there are two green cloaks. Joffrey doesn’t realize his betrothed’s family will never let Margaery marry him. To Sansa’s astonishment, Cersei doesn’t appear worried either. Though, she supposes Cersei has gotten away with seeing both Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark dead without any consequence.
Sansa looks around the assembly. There are high and low lords both here. There are landed knights and hedge knights. There are merchants and smallfolk. The tables are full to bursting with people, because Joffrey likes an audience. He craves their simpering and enjoys showing off. Showing what happens if you dare cross the king.
Lord Tyrion is at the table with Sansa and Willas, because Cersei refuses to let him share her table. He looks rightly nervous, glancing about the crowd.
“To my beautiful niece!” Oberyn shouts and raises his goblet. Wine sloshes over the side and lands on the lady next to him. At her glare, Oberyn takes a few hasty steps back, positioning himself next to Jaime Lannister.
“You are too kind,” Arianne says. She rises gracefully and Jon rises with her. The audience shifts their attention to the two visitors and misses the movement along the edges. Arianne smiles up at Jon as if she is in love with him. And then she looks down at Joffrey, who scrambles to stand so she doesn’t tower over him.
It’s undignified and makes him look like a child.
“You asked in the throne room, what I am called now that I have married,” Arianne says, and her voice carries over the entire courtyard. It’s a reminder that she was raised to rule. “As is Westerosi tradition, I have taken my husband’s name, as he has brought me under his cloak.”
“But I am not a Snow and neither is my wife,” Jon says. His voice is gruff, it sounds like home, but there is a confidence to it that Jon never had a Winterfell. He does not hunch his shoulders or try to make himself smaller. He stands tall and proud beside his wife. “I went to Dorne to see the place I was born, the Tower of Joy.”
Whispers break out in the crowd. The Kingsguard move toward their king and the red cloaks reach for their weapons. But it’s too late. Joffrey invited his downfall into his keep.
“I am the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen,” Jon says, and he has to raise his voice to be heard over exclamations of surprise and the drawing of steel. “I am the blood of the dragon, and I am here to claim what has been stolen from my family.”
“Treason!” Joffrey shouts. “I want his head!”
The Lannister guards charge forward only to be grabbed, disarmed and then restrained by Tyrell guards. The Kingsguard are outnumbered, but they fight. Sandor kills five Dornishmen before he’s brought down. A lithe young woman with dark hair and dark skin guts Meryn Trant with a sharp smile. One by one the Kingsguard are brought down until there is only one remaining, forced to his knees with a knife to his throat.
Oberyn Martell stands poised over his prize, Jaime Lannister himself, and he looks to Arianne as if with one word from her, he’d gladly slit the man’s throat.
Joffrey, Cersei, and Tommen have been seized by Tyrell and Martell loyalists. Cersei’s face is twisted in fury, as if what has happened hasn’t truly sunk in yet. Joffrey cannot believe what has happened, and he screeches for more guards, for bloodshed, for someone to put an end to this.
“Aye, I’ll end it,” Jon says. He looks to Cersei. “Is it true?” he asks. The glance he sends to Joffrey makes his question obvious.
Cersei, who must know by now how utterly she has lost, still doesn’t show any signs of fear. She spits at Jon’s feet.
Jon shakes his head when the man holding Cersei tightens his grip. “I am the child of Lyanna and Rhaegar, found by my uncle, Eddard Stark, when he was searching for his sister. He protected me from the Targaryen slaughter by calling me his. Whether your children have Baratheon blood or not, the Iron Throne is mine. So, I ask you again Cersei Lannister, are the accusations that your children were fathered by Jaime Lannister, not Robert Baratheon true?”
Sansa never knew Lyanna or Rhaegar, so she cannot say if Jon’s bearing is reminiscent of either of them. He does, however, remind her of her father. He stands tall, with an unasked for burden on his shoulders, but one he will bear because it is now his to carry. He speaks clearly, he pursues the truth, and she knows he will act in honor. But where her father had only ever been a lord, Jon is a king.
Cersei tips her chin up, that Lannister pride shining through. “Yes,” she answers.
The crowd seems to gasp as one and then a thick, suffocating silence falls over the assembly. Joffrey is staring at his mother in horror and outrage. Tommen, who has been near tears since the commotion began, now cries openly. And Ser Jaime. Jaime Lannister, still on his knees with one of Oberyn’s hands fisted in his hair and Oberyn’s blade at his throat, closes his eyes as if he knows Cersei has just given a death sentence.
“I thank you for your honesty,” Jon says. “With this confession, you have admitted to treason against your former husband and king, Robert Baratheon. The punishment for treason is death.”
“No!” Jaime bellows, and he rises up off his knees before two well-aimed blows from Oberyn send him back down.
“And my children?” Cersei asks Jon, as if Jaime’s outburst never occurred.
“Joffrey will die,” Jon answers bluntly. “Myrcella and Tommen will live. Dorne will honor the betrothal between Myrcella and Prince Trystane.”
“What?” Cersei’s composure fractures, hope cracking her unaffected mask.
“Targaryens have wed each other for centuries,” Jon says. “Incest is discouraged, but I can hardly pass judgement for it. No, your youngest children are free of any crime. They are Lannisters of Casterly Rock, of Tywin Lannister’s line, and they will live. But the overreach of your father, the ambition he passed onto you, that will end. The Lannisters will become a loyal family again or they will be extinguished.” Jon finds Lord Tyrion with ease, seated next to Sansa. “If Lord Tyrion accepts this judgment, he will assist his niece or nephew, whichever one inherits Casterly Rock.”
Tyrion, who is trembling slightly in his chair, inclines his head in agreement. That is the answer of what will happen to Tywin Lannister, his daughter, his youngest son, and his three grandchildren. There remains one last Lannister fate unknown. It feels as if every person in the courtyard looks at Jaime Lannister.
His Kingsguard cloak is half torn off his back. Oberyn’s boot grinds the fabric into the dirty ground. There is blood trickling from the corner of Ser Jaime’s mouth.
“Ser Jaime did the realm a service when he slew the Mad King Aerys,” Jon says and somehow the courtyard falls even quieter. “When a knight is sworn into service, they offer their services. They pledge to shield their lord’s back and keep their counsel and give their life if need be. But the lord has responsibilities in exchange. A place by the hearth, meat and mead at the table.” Jon doesn’t look away from Ser Jaime. “To ask no service that might bring dishonor to the knight. The Kingsguard is sworn to their king, but King Aerys broke his oath to Ser Jaime long before Ser Jaime slew him.”
There are protests and exclamations, some of the loudest coming from the Dornish contingent. Sansa can’t look away from Ser Jaime. He stares up at Jon as if Jon is one of the gods made flesh. As if Jon is water after a drought or the sunrise after the Long Night.
“You have killed one king and cuckholded another,” Jon says and his voice is softer now, as if his words are meant only for Ser Jaime, “but neither of those kings deserved your loyalty or your service. I ask you, Ser Jaime Lannister, to consider whether I do. If I do not, you will be executed alongside your sister. But if you find me worthy, I will accept your vow to me, and I will vow to you in return.”
“No dishonor?” Ser Jaime asks, a waver in his voice, that Sansa would never have expected to hear from such an infamous knight.
“None,” Jon promises, vows.
Ser Jaime takes one, shuddering, breath and then speaks. “I offer my services, King Jon Targaryen.” The crowd swells with noise again, but Ser Jaime simply raises his voice. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”
Jon steps out from behind the high table until he can stand in front of Ser Jaime. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jaime, knight of Westeros and the Kingsguard.”
There’s a tense moment where Sansa is afraid Oberyn won’t release his hold on Jaime. But he does, shoving Ser Jaime’s head down before he takes two steps back. Ser Jaime rises on unsteady feet.
Jon observes the crowd, the people frozen in their seats, food and drink untouched. “It would be a waste not to eat,” he says.
Cersei and Joffrey are taken from the courtyard by a dozen Tyrell guards and twice as many Dornishmen. Oberyn looks torn between going with them and staying near Ser Jaime. Eventually, two of his daughters slip away, and so Prince Oberyn settles himself as Ser Jaime’s shadow.
“It is almost over,” Willas tells Sansa as they try to find their appetites for the lavish feast.
#
Sansa is relieved when it turns out Loras was in fact an invited guest of Renly’s and not a hostage. Loras comes to court with Lord Renly to swear their fealty to King Jon. Lord Stannis makes the journey as well and pledges no claim or ambition to the throne now that it has been returned to Targaryen hands.
Sansa suspects Lord Stannis is more than appeased by having Storm’s End given to him as the oldest Baratheon male, by the arranged match between Shireen and Tommen, and by Jon naming him Hand of the King. Renly is pleased enough for Storm’s End to be his in all but name, a place to live and party with Loras while Stannis stays in King’s Landing.
There are other families to appease, with marriages or Small Council appointments. Robb, after using his forces to pin Tywin Lannister’s between the Riverlands and the Reach, where a mix of Reachmen, Dornishmen, and Stormlanders arrive to act as the second bulwark, suggests that Jon appoint a Manderly to Master of Ships. And then, once the Lannister army gives Tywin Lannister’s severed head to Robb as a sign of surrender, Robb sends the head along to King’s Landing while he himself returns North.
He sends a letter along with Tywin’s head, pledging his loyalty and fealty to King Jon but politely saying that it will be a long time before another Stark comes south. Jon accepts the written pledge, disposes of Tywin’s head, and then helps negotiate a flurry of marriages between the Riverlands and the Westerlands and the Reach and the Westerlands to ensure that the Lannister stronghold will now be loyal to the Crown.
Sansa finds that she doesn’t mind court so much, now that it is King Jon and Queen Arianne who rule. Still, she is glad when Willas passes the position of Master of Agriculture to another and brings her to Highgarden at last.
Even in King Jon’s court, with peace once again brought to the kingdom, there are power struggles, families and individuals who want more than they have. Sansa wants nothing of it, even if the plotting is far less sinister than it has been in years past.
She wants her home, she wants her husband, and in a few years, she wants her children. Perhaps, by the time she has children, her heart will ache less, and she will name one of them Eddard.
“Welcome to Highgarden, Lady Sansa,” Willas tells her when they arrive at their home. He tells her there will be time for a proper tour and introductions tomorrow. He is giddy, almost like a boy, as he takes her hand and guides her the family wing. When he reaches a solid wooden door with ornate flower carvings, he opens it with a flourish. “And welcome to our bedchamber, my lady wife.”
Sansa laughs and kisses Willas soundly on the mouth before she darts into the room. How young she feels, how happy, when a year ago it felt as though her entire world had ended. She touches the scar on her neck, the reminder that it almost did end.
She is glad she isn’t queen, and not only because she’s glad she escaped Joffrey. On the heels of her happiness is guilt, because it is Jon and Arianne who will rule, who will feel the weight and the pressure of it.
But then Willas kisses her throat, and she wraps her arms around his neck, and they fall onto the bed, laughing as they get tangled up in the blankets and each other’s clothes. Here in Highgarden, the Iron Throne seems so very far away. She doesn’t have to think about it or worry about it, because it is in good hands. Honorable hands.
“I love you,” Sansa tells Willas between laughter and kisses. She hasn’t said it before. In King’s Landing, the words would expose a weakness. They felt too much like hoping, and she was afraid she would lose what she had. She isn’t afraid anymore. She clasps Willas’s face between her hands. “I love you,” she repeats.
“And I you,” Willas says.
#
Sansa turns eight and ten on a beautiful day in Highgarden. That night, her husband takes her to bed and spills in her for the first time since they were wed. She isn’t sure if she conceives that night or on one of the nights that follow but within a year, she has her first child. A little girl with red hair like her mother but curls like her father. A girl who will freckle and blossom under the sun as she grows.
A girl who will know her history, about her Aunt Lyanna, but who will be raised on the story of her parents, who found love in their duty. A girl who will play with her royal cousins, because Jon adores being a father and Arianne doesn’t mind giving him children. Who will play with her other royal cousins, the princes and princesses of Dorne, because Margaery and Quentyn cannot keep their hands off of each other once they are wed.
A girl who will write to her cousins in the North and will maybe one day journey to visit them, but who will understand why her Stark cousins never venture further south than the Neck. Sansa doesn’t intend to shield her daughter, or any of her children, but she won't frighten them or make them miserable either.
There is happiness to be found, she will tell them. There is love in their hearts and the hearts of others. It may take patience, it may take work, but they will have it if that is what they desire. And her children will like these stories and lessons better than songs, because songs are made up, no one knows if they’re true, but all they have to do is look at their parents to know the truth of the stories Sansa tells them.