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Chapter Text

Sansa waddled across her room slowly and cautiously. She had never felt more like a prisoner than the weeks since her confinement to her chambers. At eight moons gone, her babe was carrying low, and on her delicate frame it was agony to carry such weight, with her swollen ankles and lower back aches.

Still, there were many mercies to carrying her babe; Cersei was rabid about protecting Joffrey's heir. The former Queen insisted that any blow that befell Sansa while she was pregnant, was akin to a strike against a future King. The Kingsguard had stayed clear of her, and Sansa could walk in confidence through the great throne room of the Red Keep once more, without bruises.

Without being able to torment her, Joffrey had quickly grown bored of her, and no longer demanded Sansa's presence whenever he held court. Instead, she spent her days in the clearer air of the castle gardens, surrounded by sunlight and roses. And by fluttering hens; sweet girls sent from their families to be her companions, since Sansa had become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Often, as she sat with those girls (none of whom seemed capable of holding a sensible thought in their head, save for Margaery Tyrell), Sansa felt her mind drift to her childhood. This is all I ever prayed and hoped and wished for, she thought, and was chastened by it. I did not pray for the health of my family as often as I prayed to marry a handsome prince and have his beautiful babes.

And Sansa knew now she had neglected the family she had, being too focused on the one she intended to make for herself in the future. She had never appreciated Arya for who she was, and now her sister was gone, missing, vanished like the mist off the sea that rolled in on clouded mornings. How could she have survived in King's Landing, alone and friendless, with no one to protect her? Arya was fierce, but she was just a little girl. How could Arya hope to be a match for men in armour with swords longer than her whole body? Sansa shuddered to think about the kind of unsavoury characters that might have set upon her only sister. But it was too late to use her influence at court to find her in secret. Arya was long gone, presumed dead.

After Arya, Sansa's thoughts often strayed to Bran and Rickon and Jon. I shall never see them again, she thought, when her tears came late at night. Joffrey will never give me leave travel to the North again. It made her sob all the harder, with hitching breaths, to know she could never apologise to Jon, never tell him how well she loved him, nor acknowledge him as her brother. She had been a beastly toward him, she understood that now that she had a better understanding what it was, to be an outsider.

Robb was out in the Riverlands somewhere, still raging a war against the Lannister forces. But Sansa had married into their family, become a relative to Cersei and Tywin and the rest, and could no longer be rescued. The Northerners fought on for their cause of independence now, and a part of her was proud of them for it. Sansa lamented she would never return to live in Winterfell, while it was in the free Kingdom of the North, and she hoped her brother would retain his title. A crown would sit well on his curls; and Robb would make an excellent king. He was always good and patient and kind. She was told he had married a Riverlands lady. Sansa wondered if they might both have babes, around the same age, soon.

Perhaps I can bring peace between our warring kingdoms, if we have children of opposite genders, who can be wed. It was a sweet idea, one that allowed Sansa to sleep with a smile upon her lips. Meeting Robb in a few years hence, so they could introduce their children, and write up a betrothal contract for them.

*

Chaos came when Joffrey died. Sansa was not there to see it, missing a grand feast due to her confinement. It should have brought relief, it only made her situation at court more perilous. Was she to remain Queen? It would not be long now until the babe came, a sennight, perhaps scant days more. But with the babe's father, the King, dead, it would not be clear who would rule.

If Sansa had a son, he would need a Lord Protector, and she could not see any man fighting Lord Tywin for the role. Sansa would remain Queen, and retain influence. But if a girl child was born, her daughter might have her supporters also. Yet no Targaryen woman had been able to take the Iron Throne while her male relatives lived; and they had dragons. Sansa knew she would be expected to throw her weight behind Prince Tommen, should that situation arise. And she would have no power then, just another lady at court, albeit one with a royal child.

Margaery Tyrell had been attentive to Tommen since she had arrived in the capital; dancing with him, and playing with his pet cats. The sweet, plump boy was smitten with her. There was no doubt in Sansa's mind who the next queen would be, should she bear a daughter. She had seen the hungry ambition, naked in the fair Rose of the Reach's eyes.

Sansa had taken to nervously nibbling on her nails, and clutching the hands of her handmaiden Shae, while the exotic woman murmured foreign lullabies. Tyrion Lannister visited her often, and sometimes read to her. Usually histories of the Stormlands. Her child was a Baratheon in name, after all, even if the Lannister blood ran too strong in her dead husband, according to the rumours.

Though she never believed she could place her trust in any Lannister, Sansa felt herself warming to the funny little man. He was kind-spirited; occasionally crass, always humorous. He told her the gossip of court with scathing honesty. Her fickle ladies-in-waiting had flocked to Margaery since Joffrey's death, making their allegiance clear. Sansa could not blame them. She had no retainers, or family at court. She found herself ever craving Lord Tyrion's companionship, if only not to seem so alone.

War makes strange bedfellows of us all, Sansa reflected. She could not fight on the battlefield beside Robb, but there was no doubt in Sansa's mind that she had been waging a war of her own, against Cersei and Margaery and the rest.

When her time came upon her, Tyrion was there, and sent his squire to run for the midwife. Tyrion did not leave Sansa alone, waiting until he was shooed out by the women who came to assist her, and she was once more thankful for him.

Sansa was not sure if the labour was worth living through. Her babe might be monstrous; it was Joffrey's get, after all. The Lannisters would be protective of the child, and the capital did boast many opportunities. It was only the idea of not watching her sweet babe grow and seeing their smile which kept her fighting on, and not giving in to despair as the long, exhausting hours of her labour wore on.

At last she was rewarded for all her pain and suffering and toil.

"It's a boy, your grace," said the midwife's young assistant, placing the plump, squalling babe in her arms.

He would not settle until Sansa placed him at her breast and fed him for the first time. Then she could get a good clear look at him. He was fat, and rosy-cheeked, with a tuft of dark golden hair, like honey, which she suspected would turn to her own bright flaming orange. It was not akin to the soft yellow gold of Joffrey and Cersei's curls, and for that she was immensely grateful. His eyes when they opened where also a bright, vibrant Tully blue.

There is little of your horrid father in you, Sansa was thrilled to see. And dying before you were born was the greatest gift he could have given me. You will never idolise him, as boys do with their fathers. You will not strive to emulate him.

She had made Shae promise to keep the child from being taken out of her rooms, so Sansa felt safe enough to slip into a doze. When she woke, she was informed that Tywin Lannister was waiting without, to congratulate her. No doubt he wanted to assert his influence and name himself for Lord Protector. But for the first time, Sansa was truly in a position of power. She was the mother of the King. Sansa would be as strong and vicious as Cersei when it came to protecting her boy. She would show the cruel former Queen that wolves had fangs, just as sharp as lions.

Joffrey may have been allowed to belittle her, and encouraged his courtiers to have little regard for her, it would not be allowed to continue. Tyrion would be her supporter she now understood, and with him came his sellsword, and his squire. Now that Joffrey was not able to use them to bully her, Sansa would have command of the Kingsguard. As she waited for the Old Lion to congratulate her on producing a son, Sansa felt a plan began to hatch, to assert her influence as Queen. To take advantage of this chaotic time of upheaval, and the vacuum of power her husband had left with his untimely death.

Sansa only spared an idle thought to wonder who had poisoned him. She would very much like to thank them.

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister left Sansa's rooms with a small, satisfied smirk upon his lips, as though assured he had gotten her cooperation. She had let him talk, unbothered to seem like an exhausted, weak-willed woman keen to let others take charge. He had assured her that the newborn King would be given all due care, the Crown undertaken with shrewdness. Sansa was certain he already considered himself her son's Lord Protector, and was no doubt waiting a few scant hours, before suggesting some dreadfully affectatious Westerlands name for her child. Sansa was happy to allow the Old Lion his delusions. She would shatter them all in public, in full view of the court.

She called for Shae, and the loyal woman hurried to her side.

"Help me to dress, then call for Tyrion Lannister to attend me, with all his retainers," she said.

"My lady, you must rest," her handmaid protested.

Shae had always been too bold, and clearly untrained in the duties of a handmaid. Sansa often wondered how she could have been elevated to a position in the King's own household, without the necessary skills. It was a mystery to solve at another time.

"I cannot rest, when there is so much work to do," Sansa disagreed firmly, carefully rising from her birthing bed.

Her son was sleeping soundly in a small cot beside her. Sansa crossed the room to her dressing screen and described the outfit she had selected in her mind, whilst Tywin had wittered on, self-satisfied and unable to comprehend how little Sansa was heeding his implied suggestions.

Sansa donned her black dress, accented with tiny yellow birds and a gold sash at her waist, like knight fitting himself for battle. The black for mourning, but still highly decorated in the colours of House Baratheon. Now was her moment to display her allegiance. She must remind her doubters and detractors, those who would dismiss her out of hand, that she was indeed the Queen. Starting now, she would be respected as such.

Tyrion arrived as Shae was arranging the finishing touches of her hair. Sansa had opted for the simplistic style of loose tresses. Aside from two pieces drawn back from either side of her face, just above her ears, to be twined together in a thin braid lying at the centre back. Tyrion seemed startled to see her fully dressed.

"Should you not be a-bed, your grace?" he asked, worried.

Sansa smiled at him, and thanked him for his concern.

"Come and meet your great-nephew," she said, distracting him from his fears.

The small man waddled to the bassinet where Sansa's son slept peacefully, adorable in his swaddling.

"He's beautiful, Sansa," said Tyrion in awe. He traced the babe's cheek with one achingly gentle finger.

"You have not seen his eyes yet; bright Tully blue like the sky on a cloudless day," she replied, incredibly pleased. "I do not think they are like to change."

Tyrion smiled knowingly.

"He has inherited all his beauty from his mother," he noted.

Sansa smiled demurely, before asking Tyrion to escort her to the throne room. He was appalled at the idea of her walking so far so soon, but she would not be dissuaded. So it was, that Sansa led the charge, with Tyrion at her side. Followed by his quiet squire, Podrick Payne. The hedge knight, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, brought up the rear. Only Shae remained, to watch over the babe.

In the throne room, the session of court was just beginning. Tywin Lannister stood on the dias before the towering, asymmetrical steps up to the coveted seat of the Iron Throne, as though he had been planning to seat himself upon it. Sansa marched with confidence toward him, and the court parted for her, entirely respectful now that she was mother to a King. She wondered if the sex of her child had yet been announced, but then decided it did not matter. Gossip spread like wildfire in the court of King's Landing. Only the least of the lords would not have been informed.

Sansa paused when she reached the dias of the Iron Throne, taking a moment to look up, up, up the ghastly steps of the thousand blades of Aegon the Conqueror. She wondered for the first time if any of the men those swords had been stolen from had wept, to lose an ancestral weapon, along with dominion over their own lands. Sansa had lost all connection to her family, and reckoned that her pain was akin to that of those long-dead men. But it was for the home she would never see again, that she cried her tears; for the loss of her father, and not the loss of Ice.

After a long moment of contemplation, Sansa hitched up her dark skirts in both hands, and mounted the steps, scaling the dias, before placing sure hands upon the blackened, melted metal of the Iron Throne. A murmur of disbelief rippled through the court, but no one made a move to stop her. Sansa just managed to catch Ser Bronn's quiet questioning if she was "allowed to do that", to which Tyrion replied; "well, it seems she's doing it anyway," which made her smirk.

At the summit of the lop-sided staircase, Sansa turned and waited for a dramatic moment, before seating herself imperiously on the Iron Throne; the immense, intimidating seat of power for the Seven Kingdoms. She stared down at the court and immediately understood why Joffrey enjoyed holding court so much. Everyone and everything seemed small and petty from up here.

There was a long, pregnant silence. Then Tyrion announced what Sansa had told him to say;

"Congratulations and felicitations will ring out across the Seven Kingdoms. Let it be known that Queen Sansa Baratheon has been delivered of a son. King Eddard Baratheon, the First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. May the gods bless and keep him!"

The last part was shouted, and obediently echoed back by the court. Sansa was watching for Lord Tywin's reaction to the name she had chosen, and was gifted by twin sour looks on his and his daughter's face, as Cersei had drifted close to stand beside her father.

"The Queen has several announcements to make," Tyrion continued, "and bids that several subjects of the realm not present at court are to be sent for."

He looked up to Sansa expectantly.

"While my son is in his infancy, he will need protection and guidance," said Sansa, projecting her voice louder than she had ever dared to speak in public before.

"It is the Crown's wish that the High Septon should attend upon us, and also a representative of the Royal Captains of the Sea Watch." Sansa looked out across the full court and added an amendment; "I see that Grandmaester Pycelle is also absent. Have him fetched."

It felt incredibly freeing to make demands without using her lady's courtesies. Sansa took a moment to survey the room, and a sea of curious faces stared back at her. No one seemed angry, or like to wrest her from her seat, so she continued with her many tasks. There was much she had decided to decree, whilst she had the advantage of surprise.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," she called out, and waited as the man stepped out from his customary position, staring out at court with the other members of the Kingsguard. He turned to face her, clad head to toe in his golden armour and spotless white cloak.

"Remove your helm," she demanded, well remembering Cersei Lannister's words, the day she dismissed Ser Barristan Selmy from his well-earned position.

Sansa saw Jaime hesitate for just a moment, before doing as he was bid, reaching up to awkwardly remove his spiked helmet with his one hand. When he was standing patiently with it tucked beneath one arm, she continued;

"Jaime of House Lannister, you have served your office beneath a cloud, since betraying your sacred vows and slaying your King. Nethertheless, you served King Robert and King Joffrey with all distinction and honour."

Bemused, the golden-haired knight said; "Thank you, your grace." He glanced in the direction of his sister and father, as if wondering if they could better understand what Sansa's point was. But Sansa had come to it.

"Yet I have my doubts of your fealty to my son, your King. Robert Baratheon was a great warrior in his time, and my beloved Joffrey-" only much practice allowed her to voice such a falsehood without gagging, "-was your own dear sister's son. But I doubt the son of your nephew warrants a great regard. You have been greatly injured, ser. It would not be just of the Crown to make demands upon you, you cannot hope to meet."

As she spoke, his eyes had widened, and his mouth now hung open, evidently aware of her intention at last.

"It is the Crown's wish that you resign your position, and return home to Casterly Rock. No doubt it will take some time for you to set aside soldiering, and re-learn the duties of a lord and heir to a Great House."

Jaime Lannister gaped at her, his mouth opening and closing dumbly.

"You have no authority-" Cersei Lannister screeched, but she did not get any more words out, before she was silenced by a mere look from Lord Tywin.

He turned away from her, glancing up at Sansa, who noted that he was smiling. A broad wide smile and not a reserved smirk, for the first time since she had met him. She knew that Aerys the Mad King had forced Tywin to give his golden son and heir up to a life of servitude to the Crown. He had been furious, but unable to stop it, as Jaime agreed to take the sacred vows. Sansa wagered she could demand a boon from the ageing lord at some later time, for granting him one of his greatest wishes in the return of his heir.

But Sansa had other business to attend to, before that could come to pass. She dismissed Ser Jaime, who was still gaping, dumbfounded at the change in his fortunes. He walked stiffly to stand behind Cersei, as though suspecting there was no where else he would be welcome.

Tyrion seemed unsettled at the news, and Sansa hoped he would not be too sore at her, for removing his chance to be the Lord of Casterly Rock. She did not think it would be an easy task for Tywin to induce Ser Jaime to marry. Not if the rumours of the indecent affection between him and his twin sister were true. It was likely that Jaime would never father legitimate children, and the Westerlands would pass to Tyrion eventually.

"Sandor Clegane," Sansa addressed next, waiting patiently for the rough Hound to mirror Ser Jaime; stepping out from his place at the Kingsguard, to turn and face her.

He removed his vicious hound-shaped helmet without needing to be asked.

"Mean to do away with all of us, do you?" he snarled, as uncouth and disrespectful as ever.

"Not at all," Sansa replied, knowing better than to demand deference from him. "Sandor Clegane, long have you demonstrated an aptitude for swordsmanship and fierceness in battle. I would name you for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, if you will accept it."

He glared up at her and gnashed his teeth, stretching his scar even more gruesomely than usual, but at long last he agreed.

"Aye, I'll have it, though I'll have no man call me lord," he snapped.

Sansa refrained from telling him that she had expected nothing less. He stomped back into his former place, and she resisted the urge to smirk and laugh at his childish behaviour.

Sansa moved on from the Kingsguard then.

"Lord Varys, I understand the small council has been missing a Master of Laws for some time?"

"Yes my Queen," the smiling perfumed man tittered, bowing his bald head deeply as he spoke, "It has sat empty since Renly Baratheon left court."

"Remiss of the Crown," Sansa censured, "But no matter. Send word to Doran Martell, and offer him the position. I understand he is too ill to hold the office; be sure to make it clear his brother or one of his sons would be equally welcome in King's Landing."

"The Martells, your grace?" The Master of Whispers reiterated, "Are you entirely certain?"

"I am," Sansa said shortly, and he bowed again, before melting back among the masses of enthralled courtiers. This was the most change anyone had implemented all at once, since Joffrey first took charge of the throne, and started making petty and pedantic demands.

She had noted that the Grandmaester had joined the throne room, and decided to continue with matters of the small council now that she had begun.

"Grandmaester Pycelle, you have served the realm faithfully under many Kings, but the time for rest has come. You are relieved of your Great Office, and given leave to return to the Citadel. Have them send your replacement with all due haste."

The old man blustered and sputtered, outraged. His ugly grey robes flapped about as he flailed his liver-spotted, wrinkled arms.

"My office is for life, your grace!" He protested, suddenly far more robust than he projected during most courtly sessions.

"Indeed," said Sansa coldly, "And should you wish to vacate the position in the usual manner, I assure you - it can be arranged."

The ancient maester blanched, horrified. Sansa caught sight of Tyrion Lannister covering his delighted laugh with a very fake cough into his closed fist. His eyes were actually watering with joy, and she was certain she was back into his good graces. Had they been alone, Sansa would have laughed along with him. But she was forced to move on, while she still had the energy. There were many people she still wished to address, and she could not risk the court coming back to their senses and remembering that she only wielded the power they would allow her.

"Ser Kevan Lannister," Sansa called out, waiting patiently as the man made he way across the room, from a position hidden out of sight in the far recesses.

"Your grace," he simpered softly, affording her a shallow bow. Sansa countered him with an unimpressed look, clenching her hands onto the arms of her son's throne.

"This war has gone on long enough. I am entrusting you with task of bringing the Crown's terms for peace with the North."

There was shock at that. It was Sansa's boldest move yet. She was not in command of the Lannister army. To demand peace from them was no mean feat. Still, she was determined to exert her influence while it lasted.

"I will not have my son, your King, live out his infancy through the turmoil of a long-lasting war," Sansa called out, above the rabble of the crowd. "Winter is Coming, my lords and ladies. The word's of my father's House are no mere jape. We need to look to our harvests and stores. We cannot be a Kingdom divided when the snows fall."

"Well said, my Queen," Tyrion piped up in support, and Sansa afforded him a thankful smile.

"We shall sue for peace, and the North's demands for independence will be met. Draw up favourable terms, for the continuing trade of their furs, wool and wood, and any other goods deemed necessary. They will no doubt want to continue to make use of the Reach's vegetable gardens. You will present your terms to the small council before setting off a sennight hence."

Kevan Lannister was staring at her with something like respect in his flinty grey-green eyes.

"Yes, your grace," he said, but Sansa did not dismiss him before appointing him a left and right hand in his task;

"Ser Benedict Blackmont of Dorne, and Lord Mark Mullendore of the Reach, will accompany you in this task. I expect you to discuss the terms together, and assess the necessary figures carefully."

If he was offended that Sansa did not trust his judgement alone, in a task of such magnitude as a Kingdom seceding from the Iron Throne, he did not show it.

The next lord to stand below the dias as stare up at her, awaiting the judgement of their uncharacteristically forceful and confident Queen, was Ser Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers was as handsome as Sansa always remembered him. His lovely hazel curls had been recently shorn, to fall in gentle waves above his ears.

"I have a singularly difficult task for you Ser Loras, and I hope you will not disappoint me, by being unable to meet it," Sansa said, stoking his pride.

He immediately puffed up his chest, eager to prove himself. She was shocked by how easy it was to wound a man's ego, and use that to manipulate him. It was pathetic, truly.

"You will find me equal to any task you can ask of me, your grace," he declared arrogantly.

"We shall see," Sansa said, unimpressed. "I would have you find Gregor Clegane, and bring him to King's Landing clad in irons."

Ser Loras started. No doubt reliving the Hand's Tourney, and the fateful moment when he had almost lost his life to the Mountain's blade. Suddenly, the Rose of House Tyrell was no longer so cock-sure, and certain of himself.

"On what charge, your grace?" he asked, and Sansa smiled widely, eager for this moment more than many of the other triumphs she had gained so far.

"His unlawful pillaging of the Riverlands," she said slowly, her smirk broadening before she added her devastating blow; "And for the treasonous murder of the Princess Elia Martell, and her children."

The silence was swift and absolute. Several heads swung toward where Tywin Lannister was stood, rigid as stone. But Sansa refused to be cowed by the opinions of cruel and corrupt men. She had spent her childhood obsessed with the tales of true knights, chivalrous men who committed feats of bravery, purely out of honourable intentions. Sansa refused to believe it was impossible to behave in such a manner, and still navigate this complex world.

She was determined to be a kind and just Queen. The sort of ruler who could be relied upon, to administer fair justice. What better way to start her reign, than by finally scrubbing out the stains and blemishes of her predecessors? She could not go back and right their wrongs for them, but she could offer some restitution, long after the fact, and hope it might go some measure of the distance to improve relations across the Seven - Six now, with her decree to grant the North its freedom - Kingdoms.

"Long have Dorne stood apart and separate from the concerns of the rest of the realm. It cannot be allowed to continue in this manner. That is why I have sent for a representative from House Martell for a position upon the small council, and why I demand vengeance for their fallen Princess. The Crown must defend the rights and uphold justice for our lords, otherwise what is the use of a King and Queen at all?"

Sansa did not expect a reply to her rhetorical question. But Tyrion Lannister spoke up in support of her again, and she was almost glowing with pride. Sansa felt she was doing a fine job so far. There had been no riots yet; no knights had been sent up the steps to wrest her from the throne and throw her over their shoulder, to cart her back to her chambers in disgrace. There must be some who agreed with her decisions and decrees. Or at least those who were interested enough to listen and consider her ideas in private. No doubt she had her detractors, but none willing to disagree with her in public just yet.

It was then that the High Septon arrived, with all the pomp and circumstance of his office. Led into the the throne room by the Most Devout, swinging their strong Sept incense and murmuring prayers. The court parted, most bowing their heads in respect in the presence of the gods' representative on earth. Sansa waited patiently for the ritualistic entrance to be completed, her hands demurely settled in her lap. When he stood before her, she nodded her head in a shallow bow to the devout man.

"Not since the days of the reign of Jaeherys, has the High Septon taken a part in the affairs of the realm," said the portly man, weighed down by his gleaming crystal crown, and ostentatious red, gold and white robes.

Sansa felt her small silver crown of antlers currently nestled on her flaming red hair, inlaid with diamonds, was positively modest in comparison.

"Perhaps that lack of spiritual guidance is the reason for much of the strife that has befallen the realm, since then," Sansa mused, and was gratified to see the pompous man consider her words.

"What need does the Crown have to call upon the gods this day?" he asked.

"It is not the gods whom I implore, but their representative in this world," Sansa revealed, "I was present on the day when riots broke out in this city, and your predecessor was torn limb from limb by the crowds of the poor, rabid with hunger."

Those words rather took the wind from the man's sails. He grimaced at the reminder of the previous High Septon's fate.

"An extremely unfortunate incident," he lamented.

"One which might have been avoided, had the Crown been more mindful of its duty toward the poor," said Sansa severely, once again censuring the reign of her husband and his supposed father.

"Malcontent within the city cannot be allowed to reach such a fevered pitch again," she continued, "This task I hand to you, High Septon. I would have your Most Devout, those who give alms and comfort to the poorest wretches, to present the Crown with notes on the improvements which could be made to ease their situation. Be it investment in the charitable kitchens or workhouses, or the Crown sponsoring apprenticeships for orphan children with no parents to pay for them. I want new, untested ideas, and not just calls for coin, you understand?"

"Yes indeed, my Queen," said the High Septon, "It shall be done. Blessed are those who give aid to the poor and lowly. The Crone watches over them that care, for those who cannot care for themselves."

"I have a further task for you, yourself High Septon," said Sansa, "I would offer you a place upon the small council, to advise the Crown on matters of faith, and how to better care for all its subjects."

The man seemed taken aback.

"My office cannot be stained by the temporal dirt of the intrigues of the realm," he blustered, but Sansa was not of a mood to be denied.

"Perhaps if the current High Septon cannot bring himself to sully his hands in an effort to improve the lives of the poor across the realms, I should find another who can," she suggested.

His tune changed to a sweeter song after that.

"Of course, it is the duty of the High Septon, to ensure the continued growth of the pure Faith of the Seven Who Are One. Charitable care for the needy is purest form worship can take. The Faith would be honoured to join hand in hand with the Crown for the betterment of the realm."

"Just as I thought," said Sansa gleefully, with a savage smile.

After the High Septon and his attendants had left with as much of a parade as their entrance, Lord Varys approached the throne again.

"Should it please your grace, the representative of the Sea Watch you asked for has also arrived, my Queen."

"Let him approach," Sansa demanded impatiently.

The man was a twitchy lord of around thirty, with a whiskery moustache and a bristly chin. He was as thin as a sapling and as tall. He was introduced as Ser Tristamun of House Celtigan, and when asked, informed her he had served on the Sea Watch, ensuring the safety of Blackwater Bay, for seven years.

"I understand the former Commander of the Sea Watch died in the Battle of the Blackwater, and the office lies empty?" Sansa enquired. When this was confirmed, she promptly informed Ser Tristamun his luck was in, and elevated him to the position.

Ser Tristamun blessed her and thanked her profusely, and bowed so deeply Sansa was surprised his nose did not touch his boots. He left the throne room dazed by his good fortune, to be the man selected on that day, to make the trek up to the Red Keep.

Her tasks were winding down, and her strength was fading. Sansa was ready to take a long nap beside her son, who was no doubt hungry and would need feeding again before she could sleep. But her work was not yet complete and she soldiered on, calling upon her next unsuspecting volunteer.

Lady Margaery approached the throne with all the dainty grace she could muster, which was considerable. But her eyes held a wary fear, that it gave Sansa a dark satisfaction to see. She knew that Margaery had been plotting the marry Tommen and take the Throne at his side, and now she wondered if the Tyrells had poisoned Joffrey in order to force the issue. Somehow, she suspected that was the truth of it. They could not be allowed to remain at court, lest they decide her infant son should follow his father to the grave. Sansa would stopper that temptation before it could take root. She had already invented a reason to be rid of Loras, and with her task for Margaery, they would be forced to split their household to ensure both of them would be safe on the road.

"Lady Margaery, we have spent many a pleasant hour in conversation, and from that I have come to learn of your sound and sensible judgement."

"Thank you, your grace," Margaery murmured with a lovely curtsy.

"That is why I am entrusting this delicate task of the upmost importance to you," Sansa continued, "I have no blood family at court, but you have come to be almost a sister to me, my lady. For this reason I know you will carry out this task with as much dedication, as if it were on behalf of your own House."

"You can count upon it to be so, your grace," Margaery agreed, clearly flattered by Sansa's words.

"I wish for you to travel to Dorne and visit the most noble of Houses there." Sansa said, watching carefully as puzzlement crossed the other girl's pretty features.

"To what end, my Queen?"

"My son will require a bride," Sansa said, "And as I have already noted, it is time for Dorne to be welcomed into the fold once more. Long have they stood apart, but we cannot allow that state of affairs to continue. I would have you make your way to Sunspear, to visit with the Prince of Dorne, but meet the most noble of Houses along the way. To report back to me with many ravens, on the state of the households, the temperament of their daughters, and the lords like to have children in the coming years, that may be eligible to marry into the Crown. It may take a year or more to visit so many households, my lady. Do you feel equal to this task?"

"I am honoured you think me worthy of such a sensitive endeavour, your grace," Margaery said, without so much as a glance in Tommen's direction. She knew when she had been outmanoeuvred, but Margaery understood how the game was played. Sansa knew she would jump at any chance to gain royal favour for her House. A public show of trust such as this would mean much for House Tyrell.

To broker the marriage contract for a future princess was a huge privilege. Margaery would be in a position to gain favourable trade with a Dornish House, in return for promoting their daughters to the Crown. Sansa could already see the hungry ambition growing in her eyes.

That will keep House Tyrell occupied for a good long while, working for as much as they can possibly gain, playing Dornish Houses off against one another, milking them all for their favour and living off the different household's supplies for a year or two, Sansa thought, relieved to be rid of their intrigues in her own household.

On the other half of the coin, she called Prince Tommen forward, to settle the matter of the succession once and for all. But she did so with a kind smile, for he was a young, innocent boy, not complicit in his Lannister family's schemes.

"Prince Tommen, as I am sure you are aware, both of your Baratheon uncles have departed this world for the next," said Sansa softly.

He nodded, and she tacked on;

"That means the ancestral home of the Baratheons; their castle, Storm's End, lies empty. It would be a shame for such an ancient and impressive castle to be left to go to ruin would it not?"

He agreed, and Sansa brought her hands together, to squeeze her palms closed as she said; "You are one of only two Baratheons left in this world, saving myself and the King, of course."

From the corner of her eye, Sansa had seen Cersei Lannister growing more and more agitated with every word she uttered, until the vile woman was almost vibrating with rage. Calmly, Sansa reminded Tommen how succession in the majority of Westeros worked.

"Normally, a son of a cadet branch would not inherit the keep of the main line, unless in exceptional circumstance such as these. But it would be nice, would it not, for you to be the Lord of a Great House? The live in the castle your father always expected to rule, before he defeated Rhaegar Targaryen and became the King?"

"Yes!" Tommen nodded enthusiastically, "I've never been to father's castle."

"Well then, that can be rectified immediately," Sansa said, as though the idea had only just occurred to her.

"You have no right-!" Cersei screeched, apparently unable to contain herself any longer.

Twyin Lannister did not seem to think a black look would be enough to silence his daughter again, and he instead grabbed a-hold of her upper arm, wrenching her backward from an aborted step toward the throne. Ignoring the harridan completely, Sansa continued as though the interruption had not happened.

"There is only one minor issue," she said, "Because of the rules of succession, it is actually your cousin Shireen who stands in line to inherit Storm's End ahead of you."

Tommen frowned at that, but Sansa did not allow him to languish in doubt for long.

"But that is a problem easily rectified. Cousins with conflicting claims have an easy way to solve their issue. Do you know how?"

The sweet young boy shook his head.

"It's very simple- they share their claim, by joining their two households into one," Sansa explained, "When a man gives a girl his cloak, they become of one House."

She watched the Prince piece together her meaning at last.

"If I marry my cousin Shireen, I can be the Lord of Storm's End?"

When Sansa confirmed as such, and told him to pack for his visit, he practically skipped to his chambers. She resisted the urge to smile triumphantly at Cersei, knowing that goading the former Queen was never a good plan.

There were scant more issues of state to deal with. Sansa asked the Master of Games, Jaime Sunglass, to organise a tourney to celebrate her son's birth. The winner of the melee would be offered the newly vacated position on the Kingsguard. Lord Sebastion Errol was sent to the Eyrie to find out why Lord Baelish had not provided Lysa Arryn's support for the Crown. Lord Robert Arryn was to be summoned to swear fealty to Sansa's son. Ser Clifford Swann, Sansa sent to find Shireen Baratheon, amongst whatever remained of Stannis Baratheon's troops in the North.

She bid Lord Varys to draft a letter to Theon Greyjoy, offering him a position on the small council, as Master of Ships. This was met with unease, but Sansa reminded the courtiers of her intention to bring Dorne further under the purview of the Iron Throne, and said that no other remaining part of the realm would be allowed to remain isolated and separate.

"If we are to remain one realm, we must band together over our common interests, and allow each of our separate cultures to be represented within the King's court," she said, and saw many people nodding in agreement.

Finally, only two tasks remained to her. Sansa called for Ermesande Hayford's chief lady-in-waiting, and informed the girl that Sansa would be taking personal responsibility for the babe of one year.

"I understand the girl's 'husband' has not been seen since the city riots," Sansa confirmed, "Well, having the girl raised by attendants alone will not do.  My son is so young and in need of me, for the good of realm. I cannot remarry, but with my beloved Joffrey dead, I cannot provide the King with any brothers and sisters. Therefore I am adopting Lady Hayford as an official ward of the Crown. She will sleep in the royal nursery with the king, and attend lessons with him, and in all ways she will be raised as a sister to him."

No one protested, and Sansa hoped she had done the girl a favour by taking her in, and not painted her as a target for jealous children of the court when she grew. All of a sudden, Sansa's long hours seated on the Iron Throne had come to an end; all that remained was Sansa's most vital task, before she could retreat to her chambers and collapse on her featherbed.

"Lord Tyrion Lannister," she called, and smiled encouragingly as Tyrion approached her nervously, probably wondering what arduous task she had appointed him.

"You have served the realm loyally and shrewdly," she said, and paused while he thanked her. "I trust you with my son's comfort and wellbeing, and the wellbeing of all the subjects in his realm. It is for this reason I would name you Hand of the King, and King Eddard's Lord Protector."

Tyrion gaped at her before grinning in glee, Tywin and Cersei glared, and Jaime seemed grudgingly respectful of the choices she had made today: but Sansa cared not for any Lannister's opinion. She had faith in her own judgement; she believed she had made the right choices. Not only for her son and herself, but for the realm and the people of Westeros. And that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Sansa swept through the vast, grand rooms of the Red Keep in her puffed and padded, many-layered dresses with heavy silver or gold embroidery. She was shadowed everywhere by two tottering infants clutching at her skirts with nervous, chubby fingers. Sansa frequently held court from the Iron Throne, with the two babes nestled into those skirts, staring out from her lap with wide eyes, as she addressed the needs of the realm. Her babes had grown so quickly. It seemed to her mere days had gone by since darling Ned had been held as a suckling babe in arms. Sansa missed the plump, solid weight of him tucked into her bosom, with him staring up at her in awe, tiny hands always reaching to grab a fistful of her flaming red hair.

Sansa had been correct in guessing Ned's own locks wouldn't stay Lannister-light, and over the years it had darkened to a shade between her own and that of her far-flung brothers. A richer red, that was almost brown out of the sunlight, where it shone like open flames. He had inherited Joffrey's curls, but his colouring was all from her. A smatter of freckles completed Ned's cherubic look, and he could not have been more different than her fosterling, Ermesande. The little girl had dark hair and big honey brown eyes to match, and the sweetest of temperaments.

Most days when the children attended their lessons, Sansa would sit in the rose garden on the terrace, with her ledgers spread out before her on the table. Messages would be delivered to her via pages, and she was often attended upon by lords who most desired her opinion and wished to gain her favour. Most often she was in the company of Tyrion Lannister and Theon Greyjoy, men she trusted as true friends. They often broke their fast together. Though unsure of what to make of each other to begin with, the two men had eventually warmed to one another. It helped that they shared a common coarse sense of humour, and were both scorned by the other members of court. One for his stature, and the other for the culture of his people.

"I will never get used to this damn place," Theon said to her now, as he skewered a scallop with a sharp stick and popped it into his mouth, "If it weren't for the food, I would have gone home to Winterfell long ago."

Sansa paid his words no mind at all. Theon often threatened to return to Winterfell, but he had never made any plans to actually do so. She suspected he enjoyed parading around the grand castle and moaning about its ostentation, simpering courtiers, frills and frippery too much. Sansa had also seen how Theon delighted in his position of respect and authority. He rubbed his strong relationship with the Queen Regent in the faces of the other jealous lords, who considered their mainland leniage more noble than his Great House.

It made her laugh when he exaggerated his supposed Ironborn savagery, eating with his fingers, and shooting down birds directly from the terraces of the Red Keep, so that they plummeted into the gardens, and startled the ladies taking tea.

Theon was the only one who called her 'Sansa' with any regularity- Tyrion did so in private, but Theon never called her anything else. Even in open court, appalling the other members of the small council. She found it was refreshing to be termed so; Sansa grew weary of always being 'your grace' and 'my Queen' to her subjects. If it weren't for Theon and Tyrion, Sansa would never hear her own name spoken again. And Theon's lack of decorum brought the warmth of familiarity and friendship to her often dutiful position.

"If you don't stop eating, you'll be too big for a ship to carry you, and too heavy to sit a horse, Greyjoy," Tyrion warned him, "Then you'll be stuck in King's Landing in perpetuity."

Theon snorted uncouthly. "I couldn't leave, Lannister; you'd miss me too much. I'm the only decent conversation round here."

The Hound spat on the floor in disgust. "You enjoy the sound of your voice far too fucking much, Iron-boy."

"Lord Clegane, please don't spit," Sansa sighed, signing her name on a scroll with a flourish.

Sandor had raged and growled when she informed him, that upon the execution of his brother by Prince Oberyn, he had inherited his father's lands and title, though he could not take them up because of his vows. Still, Sansa preferred him to be addressed in a more stately manner, and made that known. Furious, Sandor had gone so far as to relieve himself from his duties as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for several days in a row, to drink himself into a stupor. Four men had been required to carry him up to his chamber at the top of the White Sword Tower when his tantrum was done.

Sansa had been tempted to allow them to dump Lord Clegane in the rose garden, and let the damp dew of morning to wake him. But she took pity. He had stomped about and refused to speak to her for days after the incident, but he had grudgingly allow himself to be addressed by his new style.

"You will have to appoint an heir," Sansa reminded him periodically, and did so again now.

Sandor sneered at her, before turning calculating eyes on the other occupants of the garden, strolling through the lush green shrubs, arm in arm. The unfortunate Ser Podrick Payne had chosen that moment to approach Sansa with further missives and decrees to read.

"Boy!" Sandor growled at Ser Podrick, who almost dropped his armful of scrolls in shock, at being spoken to by the terrifying man.

"Y-yes, Lord Commander?" he stuttered.

"You're not lord of anything are you? No damn castle and patch of dirt to your name?"

"No, Lord Commander," Podrick blinked, utterly bemused.

"Good," Sandor said shortly, "Go sit with the Queen while she writes a fancy bit of paper, you can relieve me of my fucking pile of pretty rocks."

Delighted, Sansa accepted a clean piece of parchment from Tyrion, who was grinning broadly. Clearly thrilled to see his former squire elevated to a lordship, meagre though it was.

"Going to keep your name, Pod? It would be a shame if House Clegane dies out so soon after being born," Theon quipped with a cheeky grin.

Sandor turned his rage-filled eye on Sansa's foster brother. She feared Theon would earn himself a beating in the yard by futher goading the fearsome Hound. But before Theon could make any more petty comments, Sandor reached behind himself and tore off his white cloak; ripping it from its clasps without undoing them, so that one clasp popped free, and the other side shredded and frayed, into mass of dangling threads.

To the surprise of everyone present, Sandor Clegane unceremoniously tossed his cloak about Podrick's shoulders, also managing to cover half his face with it. The young knight squeaked in horror, frozen in place, still clutching his pile of paperwork.

"There," the leader of the Kingsguard growled, "Now you've taken my cloak, take my name and all the rest," Sandor turned to Sansa and added; "And bother me about it no more woman, the gods be damned."

For a long moment, there was a stunned silence in response to this stunt.

"No one told me there was going to be a wedding," said Tyrion at last, "Had I known, I would have brought better wine."

Theon collapsed in a peals of laughter then, and Sansa resigned herself to achieve no more work that day.

*

Margaery Tyrell had returned to court after almost three years, and she brought with her many Dornish guests. Sansa doubted there had ever been so many of Rhoynish descent in King's Landing before. It was thrilling to have such exotic courtiers.

The kitchen cooks despaired at having to cater for the unusually spicy food favoured in Dorne, but the Dornish had brought servants and supplies of hot peppers, oil and spices to help. Sansa herself enjoyed sampling the different food, and found she favoured some of the dishes. Some were too hot for her, however, and she saw several members of the court frantically gesturing for water after attempting to adjust to the altered fare.

Among the Dornish party were three eligible young maidens for her to consider, for Ned. Margaery had made shrewd choices, as Sansa knew she would. The Tyrell maiden could not risk angering the Crown by offering unsuitable suggestions. Sansa was pleased by the selection; Lucrezzia Qorgyle, Moyrah Yronwood and Nymeria Vaith; all daughters of the main line of their Houses. Of these, she was most inclined toward Moyrah, as House Yronwood were the most ancient and noble House. They were the former High Kings of Dorne, before the Rhoynish invasions. The nobler, greater houses were naturally the first selection for the royal line.

However, Sansa personally found Lord Guilan Qorgyle the most agreeable lord of the attending households promoting their daughters' interests. Sansa suspected he would be a valuable ally, and could easily imagine herself working in close connection with him in the future. She would be happy to fold him into the family she had built for herself, here in the Capital.

None was more pleased by the influx of their new Dornish guests than Oberyn Martell, who had taken up Sansa's invitation to the small council on his brother's behalf. He japed that he might finally be given some competition in the yard from his own countrymen. But in truth, his sparring sessions with Loras Tyrell had become something of a daily entertainment. It came as quite a shock for Sansa, when Tyrion told her of the rumours that Oberyn and Loras had actually become lovers.

"That is not true!" Sansa shrieked, shocked and almost thrilled at the illicit scandal of it, "How could they be, when Oberyn has brought his paramour with him from Dorne?"

"Rumour is, she's present for their trysts," Tyrion said salaciously, with a wicked grin.

"She is not," Sansa denied, mortified at the thought of some bystander standing watch over such intimate activities.

"That's what the maids say," said Tyrion, "I'd wager its the first time the Flowery Knight has shared a bed with an actual woman. He's a sword-swallower through and through."

"Enough!" Sansa waved him off with a giggle, somehow delighted by this development.

Perhaps she was simply glad, that her plan to encourage the Dornish people to be more involved in the realm seemed to be working, though in a rather more unorthodox manner than she had pictured. The success of both Loras and Margaery Tyrell's missions had improved relations immensely. Bringing the Martells their longed-for justice for Princess Elia, and impressing upon them Sansa's regard for their Kingdom.

She was only a little nervous about Margaery's return to court, and the intrigues it might bring. The beautiful lady was in need of a good husband, before all the unwed men of a suitable standing were snapped up. Sansa suspected that Mace Tyrell would not settle for anything less than the heir to a Great House, having been disappointed in his mission to make his daughter Queen. And those were few indeed, since they had lately received word that Harrold Hardyng, the new Lord of the Eyrie, had wed a young lady named Myranda Royce.

But Sansa knew of one man that fitted Mace's expectations, who was well within reach, and perfectly suitable; being young, healthy and the scion of a Great House, whom she trusted implicitly. And she would need a trustworthy man to keep the Tyrell schemes in check. Thankfully, Theon was immediately taken by the beautiful Rose of Highgarden. But Sansa noted that he kept his distance from her, regardless. Probably well aware of which maidens he could not take risks with.

"Will you not dance with the Lady Margaery?" Sansa suggested to Theon, at the wedding celebrations of Tommen and Shireen Baratheon, after the court had returned from the Sept of Baelor, to begin the revelries.

"She's too wily, that one," Theon said carefully, "A man's liable to lose his wits, and then his head, by being too free with her."

Sansa considered this for a moment, before pushing him off his chair beside her at the high table, with a well-placed shove to his shoulder. Theon squawked in an undignified manner, as he flailed and righted himself before he fell.

"Your Queen commands it," she said solemnly, at his betrayed look.

Cersei Lannister gave their antics a poisonous glare, which Sansa felt inclined to return. The former Queen was only allowed to attend the festivities under armed guard. She had been confined to Casterly Rock since being discovered in the King's chambers clutching a silk pillow. She claimed to have been making the babe more comfortable, and none could prove otherwise. But Sansa knew the story was horseshit, and Tywin seemed inclined to agree. Privately, he offered Sansa restitution in the form of a huge sum of gold, and a promise to remove Cersei from court, and restrict her access to the world outside Casterly Rock. 

Though Sansa wanted to see the woman dead for daring to endanger her son, she had to concede, because Twyin would never allow his only daughter to be held on trial and executed. And it seemed a fitting, most cruel punishment for Cersei to be separated indefinitely from her children. Tommen was too busy being the Lord of Storm's End to visit the Westerlands, and Myrcella had wed Trystane Martell and lately been delivered of a daughter of her own. She would not be leaving Sunspear until her babe was older, and by then she might have more.

It had taken a very deferential letter from Lord Tywin for Sansa to allow Cersei to attend her remaining son's wedding, and if the woman didn't show more gratitude soon, she would be sent back to the Rock early. Sansa returned her attention to the dancers; Theon and Margaery made a pretty picture indeed, tall and lithe and graceful.

She settled back into her chair magnanimously, with all the grace of her Grand Office, smiling beatifically. Tyrion caught her eye, and she saw the twinkle in his own as he raised his glass pointedly, as if to salute her politicking. Sansa shrugged, content to let the cards fall. Many things only required a small push, she found, and she was well-placed to do so, when she felt it necessary.

Chapter Text

Jon touched Sansa's hanging glass ornaments from Lys with reverent fingertips. Careful as though he thought the stained glass of jolly bright oranges, reds and yellow, were liable to break under the slightest pressure.

"These are beautiful, Sansa," he said, "Did you have them commissioned?"

"They were a gift," she replied, her skirts murmuring over the marble floor as she stepped over to join him, "I can give your steward the details of the glassblowers who make them."

"Thank you," Jon said, "They would make a wonderful gift for Daenaera's nameday."

Sansa smiled, thinking it precious that Jon was so attentive and thoughtful towards his daughters. He had lately become a father for the third time, his wife having delivered another girl. No son and heir had yet been born to him however, and Jon had travelled to King's Landing to discuss this issue with his sister and Queen, because the lords of Blackwater Bay were growing restless.

"They are all pushing for their sons to be betrothed to Daenaera," he revealed in a disapproving tone, "She is a mere girl of six."

Jon admitted that he was reluctant to betrothe his eldest daughter to any of his vassal Houses. Because that House would then rightly feel favoured, and the others disgruntled at being overlooked. Even his goodfather was pressing for the girl to be married back into House Velaryon, even though the girl already bared the name. Jon had chosen to let the Targaryen dynasty finally die out, with him.

"She is to be your heir, should you have no sons," Sansa had countered to his insistence that his daughter was too young besides; "It would be the sensible path, to choose her future husband wisely."

"How can you tell the measure of a boy under five-and-ten?" demanded Jon, which Sansa conceded was a fair point.

"I suppose you can only take a measure of his kin, and hope he emulates them."

Jon snorted. "You and Arya shared the same mother, yet you could not be more different to one another."

It was true. Sansa had received a raven from Robb mere moons ago, lamenting that Arya had refused all the betrothals he had placed before her, with honourable Karstarks, Umbers and even a Blackwood, but was insisting that she was going to marry Winterfell's blacksmith.

It matters not that he's Robert Baratheon's bastard, he had written, how am I to face Lord Karstark and say his son is no good, and a smith preferred? She's going to start a revolt!

Sansa could not have been more pleased when Theon Greyjoy had first arrived at the Red Keep to take up the notable position she had offered him on the small council, with a raven gifted from Robb. He kept his personal correspondence bird loose in one of the rooms of his chambers, with a large cage in which to roost. She was told the servants were displeased to have to clean droppings from the room, but Sansa enjoyed to see the bird fry free from Theon's rooms to the gardens and back again, to perch on his shoulder to be fed titbits from his table. Theon had even named it Darkwing, which reminded Sansa of her mother's phrase 'dark wings, dark words'.

But the raven was a joyous addition to the household, for it allowed Sansa to send private letters to her family without the prying eyes of the new Grandmaester and Lord Varys intercepting them. As soon as she had learnt about the bird, she had begun writing regularly to her mother and brothers. Bran and Robb wrote to her regularly, Rickon whenever he was asked, and her mother at least once a sennight. It was wonderful to reconnect with them, after so long under the thumb of the Lannisters.

Robb's letter had inadvertantly allowed her to stumble on a solution for Jon's problem. She dutifully wrote back to her brother, the King in the North, and told them that if Arya would not have them, Jon's daughters were in need of betrothals. And that one of their future husbands might inherit his new title as the Prince of Dragonstone, if he remained without male issue. Sansa was sure there were Northern lords with enough spare sons, who would be excited at the prospect for a lordship for their second or third son. She also reminded Robb that he could legitimise a bastard for the sake of a marriage, and likely offer him a small keep.

Sansa had been in close contact with Jon since he personally travelled to petition the court on behalf of the Night's Watch, before the insitution was disbanded, and he was still the Lord Commander. Sansa had been reluctant to believe his terrifying words about the return of the Others. Jon had brought proof in the form of an undead creature, which he presented to the small council and select other members of the court, at a secret meeting held in the Dragonpit. She had also used that visit as an opportunity to apologise for her lack of affection towards him as a child. Jon assured her there was nothing to forgive, and Sansa assured him how well she loved him. She acknowledged him as her brother in open court, and embraced him warmly.

After the awful revelations of the dangers in the North, the Six Kingdoms had partnered with the Kingdom of the North. A joint venture to defeat the Others Beyond the Wall, before they found some way to breach it. Fighting alongside one another against a common foe, went some measure of the distance to heal the wounds between the two neighbouring kingdoms. After the Others were defeated, there was no need for a Night's Watch any longer. Jon was a free man, and he eventually chose to settle in her Kingdom, after much pleading on Sansa's part. She was thrilled that he chose to visit with her often, and trusted her enough to seek out her advice.

With a solution to his current issue at hand, Jon stepped out onto the balcony outside Sansa's solar.

"I'll return presently, with Daea in tow," Jon promised, "She's desperate to show off her egg."

Sansa clapped her hands in delight at the thought of a visit from her niece. They embraced warmly, and Jon pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. She watched in awe, as he climbed over the balcony wall and clambered onto the back of his green dragon. It had been patiently clinging to the walls of the Red Keep throughout his short visit.

With winter almost upon them, Sansa had much work to do. But as she crossed back into her rooms, she was interrupted by a loud thud from her bedchamber, as the door was slammed open.

"Mama!" shrieked her daughter, unusually distraught.

Sansa hurried into the adjoining room, worried. Her foster daughter, nicknamed Sandy by the King and the royal household, was usually a placid child. It was difficult to ruffle her, and she rarely cried.

"Mama," wailed Ermesande, catching sight of her mother, "Tell Uncle Theon he cannot go! You have to forbid him from leaving."

The man in question followed the girl into Sansa's rooms, his arms occupied by his own young child.

"Sweetling," said Sansa, "It is Theon's solemn duty to care for the people who work his land, throughout the winter. You do not remember the cold snows and dim days of seemingly endless dusk, but it will be upon us again shortly. The people of Harrenhal will rely on their lord to feed and house them in the coming moons."

Ermesande slumped onto Sansa's grand featherbed face-down, bereft.

"I think it's Robb she's going to miss most, in truth," said Theon, referring to his young heir, hitching the boy a little higher on his hip.

Robb Greyjoy crammed one tiny hand in his mouth, regarding Sansa warily beneath his mass of Tyrell chestnut-brown curls. Sansa did not doubt the truth of Theon's words. Sandy had taken to having another small child in attendance in the inner court. With Sansa keen to encourage her children to think of Theon and Jon as their uncles, alongside her trueborn Stark siblings and Prince Tommen, Sandy had decided to be a big sister to little Robb. Robb was keen to follow her about everywhere, being patient enough to sit while she played with his curls. Theon only sighed heavily whenever he discovered she had been braiding ribbons into his son's hair.

Sansa had succeeded in her mission to match Theon and Margaery together, though not without considerable effort. Mace Tyrell would generally do anything to please the crown. But he and his mother Olenna, were not prepared to allow their precious lady to marry into a maligned House, with a reputation for base savagery and rebellion. Sansa herself could not imagine Lady Margaery would ever be comfortable on the bare rocks of Pyke. But Sansa was privy to the knowledge it would never come to pass. It was not commonly known, but Balon Greyjoy had disowned Theon. After Theon had chosen to ride to King's Landing rather than Pyke, when Robb's Rebellion (as it was now known) had succeeded, he had been cast aside.

In an effort to stymie House Tyrell's fears, Sansa had settled the often abandoned castle of Harrenhal on Theon, making him a lord in his own right. Petyr Baelish had been implicated in the death of his wife, her aunt Lysa. He had fled the Eyrie for Braavos, and Harrenhal had been lord-less once more. The last she had heard of Littlefinger, he had been making overtures to the Dragon Queen of Meereen, before she made the mistake of invading Westeros.

Daenerys Targaryen could not have picked a worse time to attack King's Landing, when the troops of Westeros were high off their victory over the Others, and not keen to lose to mere mortals after that. The last surviving child of the Mad King had succeeded in burning crops in the Reach and Westerlands, before mounting her attack on King's Landing itself.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater had dealt the killing blow to the largest of her dragons, using a giant crossbow which fired spears. Another one of her dragons had abandonned her, as it was later discovered, for Jon, who had been riding through the Riverlands down to King's Landing, on Sansa's request. She had sent word to Robb begging his allegiance to band together to defeat the Dragon Queen, who had surely come to conquer Seven Kingdoms, not Six. Robb had sent her thousands of men to help subdue the Unsullied and Dothraki soldiers from across the Narrow Sea.

But that war had been over before it had truly begun. Lady Daenerys had barely survived plummeting from the sky astride her dying dragon, and she had been captured within the grounds of the Red Keep by Ser Garlan Tyrell, before she could escape and regroup with her own forces.

Sansa had the other claimant to her son's throne executed, knowing she would always pose a threat whilst she lived. It was after these skirmishes that Sansa discovered what Jon had apparently known for some time, that he was not her brother in truth, but the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and her aunt Lyanna. It could hardly be kept secret any longer, when his every step was dogged by the dragon Rhaegal, who was determined to have Jon for a rider.

"I never wanted to usurp Robb, and I have no interest in usurping my nephew either," Jon had said in dismay, "Robert Baratheon won the Seven Kingdoms legally, through right of conquest. Robb did the same for the North. I want no part in it."

It was Lord Varys who suggested that Jon might take the seat of Dragonstone, which was traditionally the keep of the heir to the throne. Since her son had none, it was deemed acceptable that Jon might fill such a role. Though leery of the prospect of ever sitting the Iron Throne, Sansa reassured Jon that it would bring her much joy if one of her brothers would agree to settle so close to her new home.

"Dragonstone was the home of House Targaryen long before Aegon conquered the rest of the Kingdoms," she had reminded him, "Please Jon, oh say that you will take it. The castle is empty regardless, and without a lord it will fall into ruins anyway."

Reluctantly, he agreed to take the seat, but still baulked at being named for a Prince. But Sansa was unmoved; she argued that Jon had been disrespected as a supposed bastard his entire life, and it was about time he was afforded the respect his blood deserved. Jon was not the only one to be given a new and unheard of style of address. After years of Ermesande being termed the Lady of Hayford everywhere she went, Ned had decided that if his uncle could be made a Prince, his sister could be made a Princess. On his tenth nameday, he sat the Iron Throne alone for the first time, and made a series of decrees. Most were petty matters that Sansa had discussed with him beforehand. Then Ned had surprised them all by tacking on;

"It is the Crown's wish-" (this being the phrase Sansa had taught him, in lieu of saying 'I want') "-that from now on, Ermesande, Lady of Hayford, the King's own sister, is named Princess. And anyone calling her different will meet the King's Justice at the block!"

Sansa had frowned at that. Since learning that he could have people executed, Ned was fond of declaring that if he was denied an object, someone would meet the his Justice at the block. (A sennight before, he had threatened a servant over the lack of sweetmeets after supper.) But she supposed he would grow out of it, as he had never actually tried to have anyone executed, and was widely regarded a gentle, sweet child.

She did not have as much time to devote to her children as in previous years. Though Sansa had resisted remarriage for as long as she was able, she was still a highly eligible woman. In truth, she did not want to live out the remainder of her years alone, and was cognisant that she could only hope for a decent match in her fertile years. But Sansa was loath to leave her children behind in court until Ned was well into his maturity. She let it be known that she would no longer turn down suitors flat, but those set to inherit a seat would not be her first choice. This was because she would be expected to accompany a lord back to his lands, if he did not have an official position at court.

Tyrion Lannister urged her to consider Garlan Tyrell a prospect, and Sansa did not find the man disagreeable. He was a brilliant swordsman, and exceedingly handsome. But she had rather had her fill of grand knights, proud of their chivalry.

Still, she had given him a fighting chance at courting her. They had passed many hours in pleasant conversation at court, dancing merrily and taking a turn about the castle grounds arm in arm. Garlan had even worn her favour when he performed in the lists. But as she supped with Garlan privately in her solar, she tried to picture ending each day by his side, and found she could not do so.

"Forgive me if I speak out of turn, your grace," Garlan said one sunny afternoon as they took tea together on the terrace, "But I have felt of late that my suit is no longer so well received."

Sansa offered him a gentle look, mindful of his feelings.

"Your attentions have not been unwelcome, Ser," she assured him, "It is only... I am not sure..."

"That we ought to continue?"

"Please don't think me displeased by our time together," Sansa was quick to soften the blow, "I have greatly enjoyed our walks and pleasant conversation."

"You are a delight, my Queen," Garlan said sadly, "I should have been most happy with you for a wife, and the man who succeeds in gaining your hand will be the luckiest in all the Kingdoms, I am certain."

"You flatter me, Ser," she replied, "And in truth, I think the same can be said for your future wife; a luckier and happier lady there could not be."

They parted amiably, and the next year, Garlan married a maiden from the Stormlands who was the Lady of her House, due to a sweeping sickness wiping out the male line. There was another reason Sansa had for denying Garlan's suit, one she kept private to herself. It was only that she could not imagine giving up her morning ritual of breaking her fast with Tyrion Lannister.

They were occasionally still joined by Theon, who by his own admittance now preferred to spend his morn lazing about in bed with his wife. Sometimes Tyrion and Sansa ate in her solar with Lord Varys or her children, but most days it was them alone. When Sansa was being courted by her eager suitors after Garlan left court, she found she could not imagine losing those quiet, calm moments with Tyrion.

It was only after her third suitor after Garlan was denied, that Sansa realised perhaps her affection for the smallest Lannister might be an indication of something more. She did not fancy herself in love with Tyrion, but she enjoyed his company, and found she was very fond of him. It was the realisation that she trusted him which tipped the scales for the Queen. She desired more than anything else in her next marriage to feel safe. She could think of no other man, outside of those she had grown up beside, who brought her such comfort and ease of mind.

It was with these thoughts in her head, that Sansa arranged her solar with even more care than usual, asking for cut flowers to be arranged in large bunches, with a more impressive spread of food than usual.

Tyrion arrived at the usual time and stopped short at the elegant decoration and lavish offerings.

"Have I forgotten something important?" he asked, "I know it's not your nameday..."

"Not at all," said Sansa sweetly, seating herself in nervous anticipation of her suggestion.

Their conversation was a little more stilted than usual, due to those nerves on her part. If Tyrion sensed it, he valiantly ignored it, with wide smiles and compliments on her hair and dress. When Sansa had swallowed down all she was able, she set down her fork far earlier than usual.

Tyrion looked at her with some concern. "Are you well, my Queen?"

"Please," Sansa said, "Now is not a time for formality between us."

"Sansa," Tyrion corrected himself, "Are you well?"

"I am," she said, "Only a little subdued by anticipation."

"Oh?"

"I have a question for you," Sansa revealed, "One which I beg you to give serious consideration before dismissing me."

"I would never grant you anything but my utmost, serious consideration, Sansa," he assured her, "Only a fool would not do so, when you have demonstrated such an aptitude for ruling."

"Your words are kind, my lord," said Sansa, "but this is not a question of ruling, but of a more personal nature, from one lady to a lord."

Tyrion sat up a little straighter in his chair, all trace of amusement gone from his face. He seemed troubled by Sansa's serious tone, which had not been her intention, but could not be helped now.

"I have been happier here, in this strange foreign place, than I ever thought possible," said Sansa slowly, "And that is in large part, thanks to your kindness and friendship, my lord."

Tyrion acknowledged her words with a dip of his head and an admission that it had been his joy and pleasure to be a friend to her.

"I had hoped our friendship might continue in a more official capacity," Sansa added, and when he did not seem to grasp her meaning, said; "I am asking, Tyrion of House Lannister, if you might consent to marry me."

There was a very long moment of quiet, wherein Tyrion blinked at her owlishly. He smiled as though laughter was dancing on his lips, and shook his head.

"A very good jape, your grace," he said, "For a moment, I almost believed..."

"I am entirely serious, my lord," said Sansa indignantly, "And why not? I am the daughter of a Great House; you are a son of the same. We are evenly matched in all ways, I should think. I believe I have proved myself equal to your cleverness, over these past few years."

"Indeed you have," Tyrion agreed, "Which is why you are too smart to throw yourself away on an old drunk like me."

"You are not old," she disagreed with a shake of her head, "Nor a drunk. And you do yourself a disservice. We have become the greatest of friends, and I think we might pass into our twilight years in joyful, sweet companionship together. Say that you will wed me, and we will live out the remainder of our days in comfort and happiness, and if there are children, so much the better."

Tyrion pressed his lips together, sucking on his bottom lip whilst he considered her words now he had been assured of her seriousness. Sansa waited with her hands pressed to her lap to prevent herself from twisting them together anxiously.

"Are you certain?" he said at last, "They will laugh at your choice."

"Let them," Sansa said dismissively, "I stopped caring about the opinions of others long ago, over matters regarding personal happiness.

"You cannot say you are in love with me, Sansa," he said, "I would have noticed."

"I know you loved Shae," she countered, "For I never saw you so miserable than after she died. I do not propose to take her place in your heart. I do not believe you love me and I cannot yet say the same for you. But I am exceedingly fond of you. And I believe if we made a home together, we would be very content. Perhaps that is all any of us can strive for, in the end."

"Perhaps," said Tyrion softly. "If you are certain..."

"I am," Sansa said resolutely. She had given the matter much thought, and would never have voiced the idea if she was not entirely sure she could go through with another wedding.

He reached across the table, and gently took one of her hands between both of his own.

"Then it is my great privilege to accept your proposal, my Queen. Sansa. I can only promise I will endeavour to make you happy, and refrain from any action which might dishonour you."

She squeezed his hand, and returned his soft smile. "That is all I ask."

After the matter was decided between them, Sansa wasted no time in arranging her second wedding. She did not need the affair to be as ostentatious as her previous match, though it was still a grand affair in the Sept of Baelor. To her joyful surprise, her mother travelled by ship to attend, despite disapproving of Sansa's choice, and the close proximity of the event to the fall of winter.

The event was to be the last great gathering in the South of lords and ladies before they all returned home to wait out the winter snows. The children were saddened to see court so empty, but Sansa was glad of the chance to settle into her new marriage bed without the prying eyes of the full court watching her every move.

By the time the spring blossoms were budding, Sansa had a new babe to call her own, and an heir for House Lannister. It was many years before she left the Red Keep to settle in Casterly Rock, but when the time came, Sansa bid goodbye to her son with teary eyes, despite knowing he had grown into a fine young king. Tyrion resigned as Hand, and they settled in the West. Sansa would give him two more children, as they lived out the rest of their days in gentle, loving contentment together, in quiet happiness.