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Sansa was ever so pleased to learn that she would soon be the queen’s sister, that the king himself would be her good brother. Straight away dreams of returning to the sparkling and splendid court she grew into womanhood in filled her mind. Surely she would stand high as one closest to the royal family. It went unsaid that she would surely be invited to attend her sister, allowing her to leave the dreary and austere Casterly Rock. So gracious and delighted was she at the unexpected news that the full reality of it didn’t creep up on her until nearly an hour after Dany’s letter arrived.
Arya -- her ugly, horse-faced sister -- would be the queen. Queen … Arya? It was a queer thought. Upon rereading the letter, she found that she hadn’t misunderstood. It was true. Arya would marry the king.
The announcement of their betrothal was as surprising as it was welcome, Dany had written. Aegon spent much of the time he didn’t reserve for affairs of state with Arya, but always along with me and your brothers and cousin. There was certainly a friendliness between them that Robb and I took note of, and I had wondered if something would come of it later. But they wasted no time acting on their affection for each other. I will miss her after she marries, just as I miss you. Though I am thrilled to see both Arya and Aegon so well matched.
Despite the years she spent in King’s Landing, Sansa scarcely knew the king. Deeply nestled in Princess Daenerys’ little court within a court as one of her ladies-in-waiting, she had only seen the king from a distance at court and feasts and tourneys. But still… Sansa tried to imagine Aegon -- so handsome and tall and regal, every inch the king -- with Arya at his side as queen with dirty skirt hems and messy hair. She frowned at the thought. Were they truly well-matched or was Dany merely being kind? It wasn’t as though the princess could politely say that the king had made a mistake. Not in a letter. Mayhaps the council believed Arya was the closest to a good political choice once Lord Baratheon refused to betroth his daughter to the king. Yet, surely meeting Arya would have convinced the king and his advisors to look elsewhere.
The only explanation was that her sister had changed completely.
Of course! That must be the truth of it.
In the two years that had passed since Sansa’s marriage, Arya had surely grown into a fine lady worthy of a great marriage. Mayhaps it was Dany’s years of influence that changed her. Or her insistence on being hopeless was an act, as Septa Mordane often claimed. But it all came to the same thing now and the news was well worth rejoicing.
Seated pleasantly among the ladies of the household that afternoon, Sansa embroidered a handkerchief and regaled them with the news that she would soon be the good sister of the king. Exclamations of joy and congratulations from the assembled women greeted the news. Meanwhile, the mouths of Jeyne Poole and Septa Mordane gaped open. The septa quickly recovered and returned to her needlework. Jeyne didn’t.
“You don’t mean that the king will marry Arya !” she cried. “Why would the king do a thing like that? He has horses prettier than her.”
Sansa forced herself not to nod in agreement. “That’s an unkind thing to say Jeyne. You must remember your courtesies.”
“Not everyone can marry the most beautiful lady or handsome knight they know,” Darlessa Marbrand said. “A king most of all marries for matters of state. The Lady Arya is of the highest birth and brings with her allies from the four northern kingdoms. Mark my word, that’s what decided the matter.”
“But what of her household?” Myrielle asked. “Might you put me forward to serve as one of her ladies? A Lannister in the queen’s train can only strengthen all of us.”
“You mean to leave all four of your children behind?” Lanna demanded. “Not one of them is old enough to attend court. My Jocelyn is unwed and close to the Lady Arya’s age. Surely she would be the best choice.”
“Your daughter is a Jast, not a Lannister!”
All at once, the assembled ladies burst into a frenzied argument, insisting that they or their daughters or granddaughters would serve the future queen and House Lannister best. Even Lady Genna entered the fray, proclaiming that her sons and grandsons ought to join Arya’s household as officers and knights. “Particularly Tywin. He’s grown into a solid, clever lad.”
Sansa raised her hands for silence. The gesture, so effective on servants, meant little to the squabbling ladies. Only Jeyne gave her attention, though even that was brief as her gaze was soon lured away by the rising voices.
Sansa stood. “Ladies!”
Lady Genna glanced over at her, before turning to the group at large. “ Ladies,” she said in a voice that commanded attention and silenced the room.
Her good aunt’s gaze turned back to her and Sansa thanked her with a smile. Ever since her arrival in Casterly Rock, Genna had maintained her position in running the household. That didn’t bother Sansa since she had no head for figures and only spoke with the steward when she had exceeded her allowance. But Sansa did resent her unofficial position of authority over the ladies. There was naught to be done about it, so she tried not to think about it.
“My lady mother and Princess Elia will likely choose who will join my sister’s household.” At least, Sansa hoped they would. Arya would likely surround herself with filthy urchins, free riders, and women of ill repute. “But I will write to my mother of any of you who might serve.”
Silently, she decided to speak for Myrielle. Despite birthing four children, including a set of twins, she would ornament the court with her golden curls, bright green eyes, and dignified manner. The children had their septa and nurse to see to their care.
“Now, I would hear music,” Sansa said, resettling into her chair and gesturing to the comely singer she had recently taken into her service. “‘Six Maids in a Pool,’ if you would.”
Alone in the godswood of Casterly Rock with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, Sansa was able to hear their unencumbered responses. Like much in the massive mountain that she still struggled to view as her home, the godswood couldn’t be more different from the one in Winterfell or even King’s Landing. The heart tree alone made up the “wood,” filling the cave completely with white branches that twisted overhead along the cave ceiling and gnarled roots that covered the ground. Sansa had always preferred the beauty and ceremony of the Seven, but this godswood served as one of the few places outside her own bed-chamber where she could be discreetly alone with her truest friends.
“I knew that wicked girl was full of malice toward me,” Septa Mordane announced, seating herself upon the sturdier roots with Tyland in her lap. “She played at struggling with her lessons to make it seem as though I was failing in my duties, hoping I would lose my place, most like. Now that lazy Florence will earn the acclaim for raising the next queen. By rights, Arya ought to have been sent to the Silent Sisters.”
Sansa had heard a version of this tirad several times through the years and agreed. The fact that Arya’s hopelessness at needlework disappeared once Mother agreed to send to the Faith for another septa proved that Arya’s struggles were only a pretense. A few turns of the moon after Septa Florence arrived in Winterfell, Arya’s stitches were straight, proving that she could have done the work well all along if she chose. But Arya had always been contrary, using her left hand instead of her right, donning breeches like their horrible aunt just as often as her dresses, and preferring swordplay to needlework, even when she became proficient in the latter. Punishment was what Arya deserved, yet had only received rewards whether from their ugly Aunt Lyanna, whom she took after, or their father or eventually her new septa. Only Mother and Septa Mordane ever attempted correcting her. Even then, it was Mother who proposed a new septa.
But that was all the past.
“I am ever so pleased that Arya has finally become a proper lady,” Sansa said. “We must all be pleased. A Targaryen princess as the future Lady of Winterfell is ever so fine. A Stark queen in the Red Keep is even finer. No other House can boast the same.”
House Tyrell had a Targaryen princess while House Martell boasted a prince, but neither had a queen. The thought coaxed a true smile to Sansa’s face, but her companions said nothing for a time.
“Arya will bring many Northmen and women south to serve in her household,” Jeyne noted.
“I would think so. Any of our countrymen and women who attend her will stand high at court. Far higher than they would at home as spare heirs and distant relations.”
Her friend stared down at her hands. “Do you mean to serve among Arya’s ladies? May I attend court with you?”
As though something sour touched her tongue, Sansa’s mouth twisted.
Arya will be queen, she reminded herself. She’s grown into a beautiful and great lady. She must have to earn the king’s hand in marriage.
“My mother and Princess Elia are arranging Arya’s household, not me,” Sansa said. “It will be for them to decide.”
Her lord husband saw no need to await an invitation. He took her place at court as already decided.
“Myrielle would shine at court,” Tyrion said one evening when she informed him of her decision to ask for a place for their cousin. “Should she fail to live up to the confidence we placed in her, we can always explain that she is a lesser Lannister and send her home. We ought to find a place for that husband of hers while we’re at it. And don’t think I have forgotten our own prospects. Your place amongst your sister’s ladies goes without saying. But Arya is perfectly placed to help me into a council seat. Is aught amiss?”
Sansa quickly reined in her expression. He must have read the horror on her face. It wasn’t like her to lose herself that way. Only Arya could frustrate her enough to make her forget herself.
Tyrion chuckled. “I would be loathe to serve my sister as well. I would find myself surrounded by chamber pots that wanted scrubbing and mucking the stables. But Arya isn’t so terrible as that, surely.”
“Not in that way,” Sansa confessed. “It’s only… Arya… She must have changed much since we saw her last. The king would never look at her if she still wore those men’s clothes and ran around half-wild like our aunt.”
Her husband’s agreement would make her belief a certainty.
Tyrion chuckled. “The king grew up alongside cousins who were half-wild and wore what suited them, even if it was nothing at all. I dare say Lady Arya shall fit in seamlessly.”
“I have no wish to refute my lord husband…”
“And yet I sense I am about to be corrected.”
The amusement in her lord husband’s mismatched eyes emboldened her to continue.
“A king might have a hundred wild bastard cousins, but not a wild queen,” she said. “Queens are beautiful, gentle, and delicate; splendid, gracious, and kind. For King Aegon to choose her, Arya must have gained some of those traits. She may have learned how to behave from Dany. Even Arya loves her.”
“I found your sister to be quite kind,” Tyrion said, gesturing for a servant to give him a second helping of chicken. “Her manner is blunt and abrupt, yes. But such can be said for many a leader. Many a queen too. The songs rarely make note of all the times Good Queen Alysanne chastised and lectured the king and his council. Those traits are hard to find a good melody for, I’m afraid. But they’re no less true.”
Sansa couldn’t think of what to say to that. Mayhaps she might note that Alysanne was good and kind while her sister had always been wicked, but he would only laugh at that. The Arya he knew from their letters was very different from the girl she had known.
“Don’t let it trouble you,” Tyrion said, turning back to his meal “We will find a place for my cousin first. She will act as our vanguard back into court. By then, you will be eager to join them. After all, Arya must surely have changed from the girl you remember from two years past. Surely!”
Her lord husband failed to mask the smile behind a wine glass.
Before Sansa could decide on whether to continue expressing her disagreement with her lord husband, Septa Mordane and the wetnurse arrived with a cooing Tyland in tow. It was difficult to say which warmed Sansa’s heart more, the way Tyrion’s grotesque face transformed into an almost handsome smile or the way their son wriggled excitedly at the sight of them.
“Oh, there’s the little lord of the castle!” Tyrion declared. “Bring him here! I haven’t seen him in far too long.”
“You saw him just last evening,” Sansa said, beaming as the wet nurse placed little Ty in his father’s outstretched arms.
“Far too long,” he insisted.
All talk of Arya ceased for the evening as they doted on their boy. But the subject continually reared up again and again.
As the moon waxed and waned, details of Arya’s wedding and future life made their way to Casterly Rock on raven wings as Mother and Dany’s letters often made note of recent plans along with the usual news of the North. It was agreed that Myrielle would attend Arya while one of Genna’s sons would serve as one of her household officers. But no mention was made for Sansa.
That both troubled and relieved her. On one hand, she was still uncertain of what she would find with her sister reigning over the court. On the other hand, as the queen’s sister and Lady of Casterly Rock, she was an obvious choice to attend Arya. It was becoming an insult that the offer hadn’t been made… until, Sansa received very welcome news of her own.
Dearest Lady Mother, she wrote, you must pass on my regrets to my sister for I cannot attend her wedding. No event would give me greater joy than to see her so splendidly settled as the king’s wife. But the risk is too great. I am with child! Maester Creylen says I will be delivered two moons after Arya’s wedding, so I dare not travel.
Even through her joy at the coming child, Sansa couldn’t help but be grateful too that this would serve as a tidy excuse for why she wasn’t among her sister’s chief ladies.
Sansa had loved King's Landing; the pageantry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. Those few years had been the most magical time of her whole life. Returning in an even higher position would be everything she could wish… but Arya….
Sansa put thoughts of court aside and put her efforts into her love of the arts as well as her growing belly. Even when letters came with more news, her eyes skimmed them so she only took in the messages she wished for.
So it was that Sansa was able to pleasantly muse on what was happening for months until Tyrion asked that she write a letter to her sister. By then, she had thoroughly convinced herself that everything was wonderful and she would dearly love to return to court once her trials were passed. She sent Tyrion off to the royal wedding with her love and support and the promise of another son to fill his arms upon his return.
Three moons later, Sansa found herself unable to fulfill that promise, but her lord husband was pleased just the same.
“Ten fingers, ten toes, two blue eyes, some wisps of golden hair…” he noted, pride radiating from him so fiercely, Sansa almost forgot how ugly he was. “Everything is accounted for. She is perfect. Are you certain she’s mine? Oh! Don’t look so cross! It was only a jape.”
Sansa turned to her other side to smile up at her mother and good sister, who were beaming despite Tyrion’s words. She and Dany had traveled with her husband back to Casterly Rock rather than sailing to White Harbor with Father and Robb after the wedding so they might be with Sansa during her labor. They were both a great help, holding her hands and encouraging her throughout. The process had been quicker than with Tyland and she couldn’t but contribute the easier labor with the presence of her family.
“She is perfect,” Dany proclaimed.
Sansa nodded, exhausted and in pain, but pleased at the results.
Once the babe was taken off by the wet nurse and Sansa had been allowed to wash, only Mother and Dany remained to rest with her.
“My lord husband and I spoke of names before he left for King’s Landing in case the babe came early,” Sansa said, sleepily taking Dany’s hand in hers. “If the babe was a boy, we would ask leave to name him after the king. But if it was a girl, we would wish to name her after you, if it pleases you.”
Dany was already nodding her head before she finished speaking. “Nothing would please me more!”
The princess gently hugged her and kissed her hair.
“I always wished to have a sister like you,” Sansa said.
The princess’ smile faltered and she glanced over at Mother. “You always had a wonderful sister. I’m happy to be your second.”
Sansa ignored that, knowing that Dany was only lying to be kind. “You were a good influence on Arya. She will make a fine queen because of you.”
“She makes a very fine queen on her own,” Dany agreed. “She is well-liked already.”
“Yes, the ceremonies, feasts, and tourney all put her on full display and she handled herself very well,” Mother confirmed. “Even with that folly of an attempt to get a white cloak for Bran, that only made the tourney that much more grand.”
Sansa had already read of the tourney and the melee for the white cloak from Myrielle’s letter and thought it a very fine thing indeed. If only Bran had won instead of that big woman. She remembered Brienne of Tarth from her time in King’s Landing, always trailing at Queen Rhaella’s heels and donning men’s clothes. She reminded her of her horrible Aunt Lyanna. Sansa would have thought that Arya would have supported the unnatural woman’s presumptions. Sansa could see how much her sister had grown in her attempt to prevent that woman’s rise to the Kingsguard and to gain a place for their brother instead. Even her graciousness in defeat was well done.
“How was Bran when you left him?” Sansa asked.
Mother’s features tightened. “His leg was healing cleanly. The maester said he would only require the use of the cane for a short time.” She shook her head. “If only he had stayed well away from that melee.”
“He’s a knight, Mother,” she insisted. “Bran’s always dreamed of joining the Kingsguard, you know that.”
“Bran is already betrothed and your lord father has plans for him,” Mother said. “We all have our duty and his duty is in the North.” Lady Catelyn held Sansa’s gaze for a beat. “It could be said that your duty is here at Casterly Rock.”
Sansa feared her mother might say this and had armored herself with a response. “My lord husband wishes for me to return to court with him to serve the queen while he serves the realm.”
Mother nodded, unable to argue with that.
“Serving the royal family is a great honor. But could you serve your sister?”
“Oh yes!” Sansa nodded as best she could from her place on the bed. “We are women grown now, Mother. She is a queen and I am a great lady. Everything will be splendid. You’ll see.”
She smiled bravely for them, but Dany and Mother only exchanged looks.
So as not to spoil the rest of their visit, she didn’t mention attending court again. Instead, they exchanged gossip that couldn’t be trusted to letters and discussed new fashions that were favored more by the ladies of the different kingdoms they met with. Apparently, King’s Landing was leaning more and more toward Dornish fashions with the growing heat of this second year of spring.
Once recovered, Sansa showed them around the Rock and visited Lannisport, pretending to love every inch of it, as a lady ought to love her husband’s lands. Every night they feasted in honor of both their guests and the arrival of little Daenerys Lannister. All the while, Sansa’s growing army of singers regaled them with her favorite songs and Lady Catelyn doted on her grandchildren. By the time Mother and Dany departed for the North, it was time for Sansa and Tyrion to make their way to King’s Landing, leaving Casterly Rock in the hands of Genna and the rule of the West to Tyrion’s uncle, Gerion, who would serve as castellan.
The fortnight it took to reach King’s Landing felt like a whole turn of the moon with the heat and sweat and jostling about in the wheelhouse. Sansa tried to spend most of her time reading but Jeyne’s repeated complaints and questions kept drawing her attention away. Dearest friend or not, Sansa saw no need for Jeyne to come, what with Cyrelle Farman and Eleyna Westerling attending her as companions, yet she hadn’t been able to think of a polite way to refuse. If only the steward’s daughter had liked one of those men-at-arms who had courted her rather than mooning after knights and lords who would never think of her as anything but a servant. But that would have been unkind to point out to her.
She was grateful for the times Tyrion joined them, livening up their days with his stories and buoyant conversation, even as he massaged the knots out of his deformed legs. Her lord husband preferred to ride at the head of their column, but even with the special saddle he made, he could only ride so long before cramps set in. Still, she admired him for making the effort and their men did too.
It was a cool and crisp spring morning when they finally made their entrance into the city and began to settle into their new apartments.
Sansa was ever so excited to be presented before the queen and to be sworn into her service. A moon’s turn before they set out, she received a letter from Arya -- decidedly not written in Arya’s rushed scribble -- informing her of the expectations of her role and conduct, and what she must wear on duty. In Daenerys’ service, she had worn only black just as Princess Rhaenys’ ladies had only donned red to differentiate them from the queen dowager’s ladies, who were splendid in both Targaryen colors. For her new position, Sansa had four white and grey gowns made in addition to several others that flattered her coloring for when she was not on duty.
Once her clothing was unpacked, she sent a page, Leo Brax, to inquire whether the queen was able to receive her and had Jeyne and Cyrelle assist her into the best of her white and grey uniforms, with the exact amount of jewels she was allowed, and pin her hair up becomingly to show her matron status. She was ready long before the page returned.
“The queen will receive you now or later this afternoon,” Leo said.
Sansa of course hurried that instant to Maegor’s Holdfast. The white knight at the drawbridge was her good cousin Ser Tyrek Lannister, who escorted her up to the queen’s apartments.
Rather than in her private audience chamber, they found the queen in her solar, where Arya stood at the center of a whirlwind of activity. Ladies, pages, servants, and a massive wolf dashed about as Arya, garbed in a simple green gown, issued commands while glancing back and forth between sheets of parchment.
The movement slowed when Ser Tyrek announced Sansa.
Arya turned to face her. “You came so quickly! Be welcome!”
Had this been the first time they met, Sansa might have considered her ever so pretty. But this was her unsatisfactory sister and to her deepest regret, that was all she could see. Still, she managed to do her duty.
Sansa sank down into her best curtsy. “Your Grace, you honor me.”
“What are you doing?” Arya demanded. Her skirt and boots appeared before Sansa’s downward gaze. There was an odd slit in the light green folds. “Get up! Get up!”
Sansa stood. Though her sister had grown a couple of inches since they parted, Sansa still towered over her. But then, she towered over most women, save the Maid of Tarth.
“What is it?” Arya asked. “What’s wrong?”
Jolted, Sansa smiled. Had she given away how disappointed she was on her face? “Nought is amiss, Your Grace.”
Arya gave her that look. The look that told her how stupid she was without ever saying the words aloud.
In an act only her sister could inspire, Sansa said, “I had expected a more regal greeting than this.”
“Regal?” Arya scrunched her long horsy face up. “You’re my sister, not some ambassador or dignitary.”
“I am the Lady of Casterly Rock.”
“Fine, I’ll greet you, Lady Lannister.”
Then Arya did something Sansa had never dreamed even Arya would do in a room full of important women and highborn lads from every corner of Westeros. She unlatched the hooks of her green dress in the front and one of her ladies hurried forward to help her shrug out of it. She might have sighed in relief to see there was clothing beneath, but, gods be good… what was she thinking? Beneath was a light green shirt tailored to fit her figure and a pair of darker green breeches and boots. Even as queen Arya still meant to dress like their horrible aunt! Sansa’s eyes darted around horrified, humiliation burning in her chest. What must they all think? Yet, everyone seemed to be calmly masking their feelings or glaring accusingly at Sansa as though she was at fault for this. A few of the women even discarded their outer dresses to reveal white and grey shirts and breeches like their queen’s.
Arya led them into the audience chamber where she seated herself on the gilded throne within, her ladies and gentlemen arrayed themselves around her, some standing or kneeling. Even the direwolf took position, laying at Arya’s feet, her golden eyes regarding Sansa fiercely. Absurdly, she felt abandoned when even Ser Tyrek found a place beside the throne rather than keeping to her side.
“Go on,” Arya commanded. “Announce her.”
An usher stepped forward. “Sansa of House Stark, wife of Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lady of Casterly Rock.”
Taking her cue, Sansa gracefully knelt. “You do me great honor, Your Grace.”
“Rise, Lady Sansa,” Arya said in a tone devoid of inflection, though she held out a hand, which Sansa readily kissed. “You are very welcome here. Lady Marilda Velaryon will help settle you in and give you your schedule.”
Arya turned to the older woman who had once been among Queen Rhaella’s ladies.
“She hates riding horses or doing anything that might make her sweaty. She won’t like going amongst the poor either. Make certain she’s only on duty when we’re at our needlework or have mummers entertaining us.”
With that, Arya returned to her solar with her people at her back and the bustling sounds continued from the other room.
Sansa found herself alone with Lady Marilda, who was taking her measure, face hard as steel.
“Lady Lannister, I am the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting. I see to the schedules for the ladies and maids on duty and provide guidance on decorum. Usually, only unmarried girls new to court require correction, but you seem to have forgotten much in your time away. Allow me to guide you.”
“My lady, I…”
“Do not speak thus to the queen again.”
“But she wasn’t beha-”
“You are here to wait upon her, not she upon you. I realize she is your sister, but such disrespect cannot be tolerated. Queen Arya is kind.”
Sansa’s mouth dropped open. Loud, unpredictable Arya who cared nothing for courtesies was … kind?
“As a kind woman, she humored you this time, but you must never behave so, unless she gives you leave, again. When you disrespect the queen, you are disrespecting the king and the Iron Throne. Is that understood?”
Mouth opening and shutting, Sansa struggled to understand what was happening. She had never been chastised this way. She had always been a good girl and she was now a good woman. Arya was the one in need of guidance. But Sansa was a lady and a lady must respond with dignity and grace.
“Forgive me if I misspoke, my lady.”
Marilda examined her with sea-blue eyes that didn’t seem to like what they found. “I will send a page with the days and times you are wanted.”
With that, the older woman rejoined Arya in the solar, leaving Sansa to hurry back to her apartments.
“She’s horrible!” she cried as soon as she saw Jeyne.
“Who?” Her friend’s brown eyes grew wide as they swept over the servants who were still unpacking Sansa and Tyrion’s belongings. “Arya?”
Following her gaze, Sansa kept her mouth shut tight. But she breathed deeply in and out of her nose in an attempt to calm herself.
“If you would be so good, Lady Jeyne, Tess, Brilla, give me and my lady the room,” Tyrion’s voice sounded from the other side of the room. Spinning, Sansa saw him entering the chamber from what must have been the privy.
Curtsying, the women departed.
“We have been in King’s Landing less than an hour,” Tyrion said. “What could have possibly gone amiss?”
Gathering herself together, Sansa explained what happened with Arya being so unqueenly and unwomanly while Sansa herself was the one chastised.
Tyrion watched her as she spoke, the broad brow of his forehead furrowed.
“You expected to be received like a foreign dignitary?” he finally asked.
“No! I- She didn’t have to take me into the queen’s audience chamber. She chose to. I just- I tried to greet her as a queen and she made a mockery of it. And Lady Marilda had no cause to dress me down like a child.”
Her husband’s mismatched eyes blinked at her a few times. “This might be the first time since meeting you that you have raised your voice.” He raised his hand as she opened her mouth. “No need for apologies. I would have you bring me your anger as well as your joy. I am your husband and you are my wife. What was it those wedding vows said again? Ah yes, One flesh, one heart, one soul.”
Those words meant more than Sansa could say. She bent quickly to kiss him. The pleased, almost bashful expression that overtook his face nearly made her forget how ugly he was.
“Now.” He took her hands. “Let us talk about how to handle your position with the queen. You are quite charming, Sansa. I have seen you at many a feast making lords and ladies feel welcome and happy with a few well-placed words. I remember one night when you confessed how much you loathed Lord Hetherspoon, though you spent half the night beaming at him and making him smile in turn. Everyone who guests at the Rock departs with praise over what a charming lady the gods blessed me with. Surely you can do the same with the queen and Lady Marilda.”
Sansa thought about it. Being charming and gracious with lords and ladies at feasts and tourneys, was effortless. She always took account of the guest lists and wrote out what elegant things she might say to them and what topics of conversation she might initiate. They would always respond with courtesies and praise of their own. Even before they spoke, the whole course of the conversations had already played out in her mind. But Arya…. One never knew what she would say or do and more often than not, it was something humiliating.
“I will try, my lord,” she assured Tyrion.
He smiled. “I knew you would. Remember, the further into your sister’s circle you are, the more information you can bring back to me each evening.”
“You mean for me to spy?”
“One might phrase it that way.” He shrugged. “I would call it a wife sharing the events of her day with her husband. Believe me, every lady, page, guard, and servant who encircles the royal family reports their doings back to someone. If their family isn’t at court, your fellow ladies-in-waiting are most assuredly writing lengthy letters back to their fathers, mothers, or uncles of everything of import from what fresh policies are on the horizon to how often the king shares the queen’s bed. In turn, they’re receiving instruction from them of notions to plant in the queen’s mind. That’s why you and Myrielle must join Arya’s favorites. Our goals are the ones the queen must champion.”
In the coming days, Sansa took the measure of the women who occupied Arya’s inner circle. Of them all, Cassana Baratheon was the only one who belonged, due to her high birth. Others included Talia Forrester -- a girl even worse than Arya, given her lower birth, Wylla Manderly with her garish green hair, Alla Tyrell who was quiet and shy except when Arya coaxed her out of her shell, and Elia Sand, a bastard who wasn’t even part of the queen’s household, yet confidently held a place as one of the queen’s favorites. Bess Bracken and Bethany Blackwood, each seemed to have a toe within this inner-circle as well, but that seemed more to do with force of will on their parts than a preference on Arya’s.
They all seemed so different. There was no telling what drew Arya to them, let alone what she might do to achieve the same. To fit in, would she have to start dressing like a man? Surely even Tyrion couldn’t expect that of her.
In dealing with Lady Marilda, she did her very best to ingratiate herself with the older woman and eventually Arya as well. As Arya ordered, she was never on duty when the queen went riding or hunting or did anything that would leave them sweaty and dirty. That was a boon she could thank her sister for. Sansa accompanied the queen to the occasional council meeting, made garments for the poor, and was always welcome when there was merrymaking in the queen’s chambers. Were it not for wasting time and cloth on the commons, Sansa couldn’t ask for better. Had she been serving a different queen, she might even have been happy.
Charming Lady Marilda was effortless. All she need do is agree with everything the older woman said and compliment her granddaughter, who served as one of the queen’s younger maids.
Arya proved far more difficult and hateful.
Often, Sansa tried to helpfully hint that her sister’s clothing left much to be desired or advised her on how she might behave more womanly. Rather than heeding her words, Arya usually scowled yet said nothing. Until one day when she lashed out.
“That gown looks ever so fine,” Sansa told her right before they were to attend a meeting of the small council. Lady Wylla and the other attendants had garbed Arya in a dark blue gown that suited her dark hair and fair skin. More importantly, it was a gown. “It looks so much finer than those manly breeches you wear.”
Arya lifted her gaze from the papers she and Alla Tyrell had been glancing over and glared at Sansa.
“Why don’t you shut- I didn’t as-” she sputtered before closing her mouth and eyes. “You may go, Lady Lannister.”
Sansa blinked. “Go where?”
“Not to this council meeting,” Arya snapped, “nor my chambers. Go!”
Restraining a retort about having no wish to attend her anyway, she had curtsied and departed.
That was far from the last time Arya behaved so irrationally. Even when Sansa wasn’t with her, she heard of the queen’s unseemly and unwomanly behavior behind whispered hands about the court. Arya often dressed like a man, trained in arms like a man, and spoke her mind with the confidence of a man.
Nearly every time Sansa went to the yard to cheer on Rickon in his training with the king, she had the mortification to see Arya and a few of her more unnatural ladies there as well.
“The queen is so graceful, she turns swordplay into a dance,” Ser Addam Celtigar said one afternoon, sidling up to Sansa and Jeyne.
She determinedly watched Rickon riding at the quintain, ignoring Arya sparring with Brienne of Tarth. But so as not to be rude, Sansa turned to him with a smile and agreed. But, though he returned her smile, Addam’s gaze slid from her to Jeyne, who blushed and grinned like a fool.
“I should love to see you dancing,” he said. “Perhaps I might claim your first at the feast on the morrow.”
Jeyne’s giddy response had Sansa blushing in mortification. But Ser Addam seemed to take no notice. He simply bowed and strode away. Jeyne was so silly sometimes. As soon as Ser Addam learned that she was a steward’s daughter with a dowry so small it might as well be nothing, he would drop her and pursue other ladies of better wealth and breeding, as other gallant knights had done before him. But Sansa said nothing because that wouldn’t be kind.
She turned back to the yard to see the king, Rickon at his heels, joining Arya and Brienne. He ought to have been chastising his wife for behaving so unwomanly. Instead, he drew her against him in an embrace, smiling. Father had been the same, indulging Arya in her wicked behavior. In Winterfell, Sansa at least had Mother and Septa Mordane attempting to curb her. But no one made the attempt here. Not even the king’s mother and grandmother.
While it was true that Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella had played a role in the governance of the realm for two and a half decades, they still kept to all other womanly behaviors and couched their arguments in passivity, once the king came of age. So their places on the king’s small council had long ago stopped raising eyebrows. Yet Arya was far bolder in her opinions, even going so far as to contradict the men on the council, forcing Sansa to stifle more than a few gasps when she was allowed to attend.
Once, Arya even argued with the king himself while they broke their fast together. Thankfully, only those in attendance on the king and queen could witness the display. But gods it was so unbearable that Sansa felt she must step in.
“Ser Alliser Thorne has served the Iron Throne loyally since before I was born,” King Aegon insisted.
“He can serve you and himself at the same time,” Arya shot back. “Everyone I spoke to about the city claims he takes bribes to look the other way rather than enforcing the law and protecting the people of the city. Each of his captains pays him part of their wages as the price of their position. Your people fear his cronies, Allar Deem and Janos Slynt, more than anyone they might find in the black cells.”
“If this is true, Ser Alliser can know nothing of it,” the king said. “He is a good knight.”
“That’s not what the people-”
“Sweet sister,” Sansa cut in, forcing a smile. “I am certain the king knows best. It’s not our place to contradict our husbands.”
Especially not a king, she left unsaid.
Arya spun in her seat to glare as King Aegon blinked and stared as if noticing Sansa for the first time. He had always been so charming with a comely smile at the ready when he spoke with her and the rest of the ladies of the queen’s chambers. But now, as his startlement turned to anger, her stomach clenched.
“No one asked-” Arya began, but Aegon rested a hand on hers, violet gaze never leaving Sansa.
“Our thanks, Lady Lannister,” the king said, the fury in his voice belying the polite words. “You may go.”
Dipping low, Sansa hurriedly obeyed, face burning. Didn’t he see that she was trying to help? As she left, she tried to catch the eye of her fellow lady-in-waiting on duty, Kaliana Swann, but the other woman stared straight forward, face blank as though she saw and heard nothing. Only Rickon met her gaze, his face a study of confusion. Later that day, Sansa made a point of asking Kaliana what was said afterward. Tyrion was always asking what Sansa learned on duty, and she had no wish to disappoint him.
Luckily, Kaliana was eager to share.
“Their Graces mean to go into the city dressed as commoners,” she whispered, as they strolled through the hallways. “The queen wishes for him to see and hear everything she told him for himself. A few members of the Kingsguard will be disguised too.”
Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth. “I would expect this from Arya. The way she acts, you would think she was born common. But for the king to go along with this.”
She shook her head and glanced at her companion expecting to see her nod. But Kaliana only stared back at her with wide eyes.
“We had best hurry to meet the others,” she said quickly.
They met several other ladies in the queen’s garden a few times a week to share poetry and gossip. Their group included Cassana Baratheon, Ellyne Gaunt, Bethany Blackwood, Alla Tyrell, Myrielle Lannister, Rhonda Hightower, Lilith Fossoway, Gwyneth Yronwood, and Patrice Darry. The latter four were amongst Princess Elia and the queen dowager’s ladies. Jeyne had come too, but though she was Sansa’s dearest friend, she hardly counted amongst their company of ladies who hailed from great and noble Houses.
Each of them took turns regaling the others with their poems while the others assisted in making each piece stronger. Once they agreed that a poem was ready, Rhonda Hightower would record it in the book they were keeping. Sansa still blushed to recall how the Princess Elia singled her out for praise. When she came to dine with Arya a few nights past, she complimented Sansa for the two poems she contributed.
“Gwyneth and Rhonda let me read what you have so far,” the princess said. “You have a gift for crafting such beautiful and powerful lines. I am so proud of all of you for expressing yourselves and putting your words to the page.”
The thrill of that compliment encouraged her to put even more words to paper. If anything good could be said to come from returning to King’s Landing, it was this group of friends and the poetry they made together.
A half-hour into this meeting and Arya’s arrival in the garden threatened to shatter Sansa’s joy.
They all rose as one and curtsied to the queen. Arya acknowledged them with a smile before blessedly striding away toward the gardener, Wylla, Talia, and Bess trailing behind.
Though Arya hadn’t stopped to speak with them, she might as well have stood in the middle of their circle, shouting. Many of the women watched her and whispered about what she meant to do with the gardener.
“Arya means to build gardens and greenhouses for both of the orphanages,” Cassana revealed. “They’re to grow crops and flowers.”
“Why would she do a thing like that?” Jeyne asked.
Sansa distinctly recalled accompanying Arya, Princess Elia, and Queen Rhaella to bring food and clothing to those orphanages. What more could commoners need?
“Arya worries about the children,” Cassana continued. “When we came to bring food, the septas who care for them claimed that most of their charges grow up to become criminals and prostitutes if they don’t go into the Faith. They have no learning for much else. Arya means to change that.”
Ellyne raised her eyebrows. “With a garden?”
“With education,” Cassana said.
“Forgive me,” Sansa cut in, “but what of our poetry? Lilith, I believe you were about to read yours.”
“My thanks, Lady Sansa.” Lilith Fossoway smiled. “But mine can wait a few days. The queen though, is there any word on whether she is with child yet? It is good of her to worry about these children, but I’m certain the king wishes for children of his own.”
The four ladies who served Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella fixed their gazes on Sansa, expectantly. To her mortification, Sansa realized that they assumed she would know, as the queen’s sister. They must have assumed that Arya confided in her. But of course, she had no notion of when or if Arya would have a child. She was so skinny and boyish, one would wonder if she could birth a child.
Sansa stared down at her hands and the silence stretched.
“The king and queen seem to have such a strong attachment,” Lilith persisted. “I would think he would come to her bed regularly. But with no result, mayhaps they don’t get on as well as they seem.”
“He does come to her bed regularly,” Alla said quietly.
Their gazes swept from Sansa to the Tyrell girl, whose downcast face grew red.
“Does he?”
“Yes,” Cassana jumped in. “He comes to her nearly every night. Sometimes, he arrives in state for anyone to see. Other times, he comes more discreetly.”
“I wonder how we have heard nothing of the queen being with child if they are working so diligently,” Patrice Darry said.
“My cousins.” Alla swallowed, still looking down. “They never announce their pregnancies straight away. It’s ill luck to tell everyone too soon.”
After a beat of silence, everyone began exchanging looks.
Not long after, their party of poets began to drift apart.
“Does this mean Arya is with child?” Jeyne asked.
“It must,” Sansa said.
She tried to think of her sister behaving differently of late, but she couldn’t point to anything. But still, she informed Tyrion of the conversation over supper. Her husband frowned.
“It seems the queen dowager and the princess are growing concerned with how long it’s taking the king to get Arya with child,” he said. “It hasn’t been so long as yet, surely.”
Sansa considered it. Arya wed just over two moons before little Daenerys was born. She was eight moons old now and a delight to all in Casterly Rock, according to both Septa Mordane and Lady Genna’s letters.
“They’ve only been wed less than a year,” Tyrion said. “Ten months, or near enough to make no matter. But then with Prince Viserys as the next in line to the throne with only the Tyrells to challenge his rise in Princess Rhaenys’ name, they may hope to settle the issue as soon as possible with a child of the king’s own body. If what Lady Alla hinted at is true, there is no need to worry. Better still, we can postpone those plans for a royal progress to Dorne for the time being since the queen ought not travel in her condition. It will be trial enough for the treasury to accommodate the tourney without another progress to follow soon after.”
Sansa’s heart soared. “There’s to be a tourney?”
“Oh, yes.” He shook his head. “We recovered scarcely half of what was spent on the wedding celebrations, yet we have an even grander tourney to commemorate the king’s twenty-fifth year on the Iron Throne. A bloody waste of coin, if you ask me. But alas, no one did.”
“Oh, a tourney!” she breathed. “It will be ever so splendid. You’ll see!”
Tyrion laughed. “You act as though this were your first. We held our share in the West and you must have attended several during your last time at court.”
In truth, it made no matter how many she saw, Sansa loved tourneys.
But her lord husband was fretting over politics again and she tried her best to listen.
In the coming weeks, little was spoken of other than the grand tourney to be held a week after the new year, only two moons away. Ravens flew to every corner of Westeros detailing the competitions and rich prizes. Even Arya seemed excited and championed the event during small council meetings.
“The treasury can handle the expense,” Arya said in response to Tyrion’s complaint. “Think of all the coin lords and knights will spend in the city. That coin will return to the treasury in taxes from the added coin from the armorers, taverns, bakers, butchers, cobblers, seamstresses, and everyone else who can benefit from more custom.”
“Never forget how well the commons love tourneys,” Oberyn Martell added. “Tourneys help the king keep their love and show his … magnificence.”
The king exchanged an amused look with his uncle before turning back to the council at large.
“As necessary as my magnificence is, I can see Lord Tyrion’s concerns,” Aegon said. “Mayhaps we will postpone our progress to Dorne for a time to ensure the treasury is able to withstand that cost as well. In fact…” The king smiled at Arya who, as strange as it seemed, blushed. “...we may have other reasons to postpone that progress. Though I’m certain my cousins will understand.”
Sansa expected the council to ask why, but none did. They all simply nodded, and Elia and Rhaella smiled. It likely wouldn’t be long now before Arya announced her pregnancy to the whole of court. Most were already whispering about it as it was.
But rather than focusing on the babe in her belly, Arya saw fit to force her way into Sansa’s affairs.
“Jeyne was almost ruined by Ser Addam,” Arya announced, her steel-eyed glare accusing.
She hadn’t known what to expect when a page in the queen’s livery announced that Arya would see her immediately. Thankfully the three of them were alone in the queen’s bedchamber, Jeyne sat in the window seat, eyes puffy and red-faced, while Arya stood in the center of the room, hands on her skinny hips. So no one else was there to hear the blunt outburst, nor Sansa’s halting attempt to gain her footing in the conversation.
“I- But what- You blame me for this?” Her gaze shifted frantically between Arya and Jeyne, before settling on her friend. “What did you do?”
Apparently, she had continued to be courted by Ser Addam for the last week.
“He asked that I meet him in the gardens.” Jeyne hiccuped, tears beginning afresh. “He said he would show me a new design the gardener was working on. Only there wasn’t anything new. He only took me to a shadowed turn in the garden and- and started kissing and- and touching me.”
“You allowed him to take liberties with you?”
“No! I told him to stop or I would scream. He told me if I wasn’t quiet, someone might see and I would be ruined. B-but Arya - the queen - she heard.”
Jeyne looked ashamed. As well she might.
“This is her fault, not mine,” Sansa said. Was she truly blaming her for bringing her friend to court?
“If you didn’t know who a woman in your household was courting, then yes,” Arya said, “it is your fault, almost as much as his.”
“I did know they were flirting with each other,” she insisted.
Arya looked surprised at that. “You truly thought a Celtigar, the blood of Valyria, would wed a steward’s daughter?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Jeyne’s always falling in love with knights and lords who are too high above her, but it never comes to anything because, well….”
She met her friend’s mortified gaze. If only Arya wasn’t forcing her to be so unkind. But, as usual, her sister lacked any sense of delicacy.
“Because she’s too poor and not well-born enough,” Arya said with the bluntness of a hammer. “That’s why you are meant to protect her. The moment you knew Ser Addam was flirting with her, you should have demanded to know what his intent was, so he would see that Jeyne wasn’t here for his sport.”
Sansa jolted at the tone of Arya’s voice. Her sister had yelled and screamed at her, often crying and running away. It was all very childish. But this was different. An… authority strengthened Arya’s voice and straightened her posture.
“Jeyne is in your care,” the queen said. “You knew Addam Celtigar would never marry her. You knew he could only have bad intentions toward her. But you did nothing to protect her.”
“I-” Sansa sputtered, her mind racing to regain her bearing in this discussion. “I didn’t know Ser Addam had bad intentions.”
Arya gave her one of her looks. “You would have to be stupid not to know that he only wanted to fuck her and ruin her and never think of her again. We both know you’re not stupid. You just don’t care about anything or anyone unless you can make it all about you.”
“I-” she tried again, but couldn’t grasp hold of the right words. She wanted to insist that she didn’t, couldn’t have known about Ser Addam, but couldn’t without laying claim to being stupid.
“You ought to have told Jeyne the truth and helped her find a husband. But that would mean helping someone other than yourself, even if it is part of your duties. You couldn’t protect her and you refused to help her! So I will because she’s one of our people!”
‘I- I- Oh! You’re horrible!” Sansa finally managed. “You’ve always been horrible!”
Once, an outburst like that would have gifted Sansa with the sight of tears in her sister’s eyes before she went fleeing. Now…. The contempt in Arya’s grey eyes might as well have been a slap.
“What you think of me doesn’t matter,” she said. “You may go.”
Shaking with fury and humiliation at her sister of all people dressing her down, Sansa barely managed a curtsy before departing. She would be a lady, even if this supposed queen could never be one.
She raged in her mind at Jeyne and Ser Addam and especially Arya. This was all their fault, but somehow they put it all onto her. It wasn’t fair.
Jeyne didn’t return to their rooms that night. Sansa could only assume that Arya meant to actually find her a husband. Well, she wished her luck with that. It would likely take years for her to find a man who would agree to marry Jeyne and who Jeyne would be willing to wed.
A week later, Jeyne announced that Arya had found a young man, freshly knighted, who might wish to marry her.
“His name is Pate, but he means to change it to Patrick,” she gushed. “His father is a wealthy merchant with a beautiful manse in the city. He was taken on as a page in the king’s household, in thanks for his father’s good service during the second Greyjoy Rebellion. Patrick did so well, he eventually became a squire and was just knighted by Ser Arthur for his service against bandits in the Kingswood.”
As it turned out, this Pate’s father hoped to see his family join the nobility someday. The surest way to do that was to wed his son to a lady. As lowly as Jeyne was, she was still gently born and a lady. So Jeyne would have her knight and they would have a foothold into the nobility, with the possibility of other marriages for his younger children.
Sansa frowned at that but said nothing.
“Arya has written to Father so she might arrange a meeting between him and Patrick’s father. If he agrees, I will finally be wed!”
“That’s ever so wonderful,” Sansa lied.
With that, Jeyne hurried away to join Arya and her ladies on a ride. Though her friend had resumed sleeping in her old bed and served Sansa when needed, she had also taken to joining Arya’s train whenever she was allowed.
Sansa might have pointed out how much they had despised each other growing up, but that wouldn’t be polite. Instead, she simply watched in growing confusion.
A few days later, when Sansa arrived in Arya’s chambers to assist in making clothing for the poor, rather than the sounds of Arya issuing orders or chattering animatedly, she was greeted by hushed whispers. Most of the other ladies stood in small groups around the solar, their heads together. A serving woman rushed past her, a pile of bloody sheets crumpled in her arms while others hurried past with hot water.
Sansa cleared the door and joined a group with Myrielle, Ellyne Gaunt, and Joanna Umber. They shared what they knew, which she had already deduced.
Arya had miscarried.
Their mother had lost three babes that Sansa knew of. One before Rickon and two more after. She remembered how frightened she had been for Mother and grieved the siblings she might have had. But then Mother had been at the end of her childbearing years and her work was done with three strong sons to show for it. Arya was young, not yet twenty. The gods must wish to punish her.
Lady Marilda strode into the room from the queen’s bedchamber.
“Ladies,” she said in a resounding voice that commanded attention. “The queen is unwell. Lady Wylla and Septa Florence will attend her in her chamber. She wishes for us to continue with our work. Come, come. No more standing about. We have much to do.”
“Might I go to her?” Talia asked.
“And me?” Alla stepped up beside her.
“No.” Lady Marilda’s tone brooked no argument. “That room is no place for unwed maidens.”
“Septa Florence is unwed,” Princess Mariah Martell said. “Will Arya be well?”
“The grand maester is with her now,” the chief lady-in-waiting said. “In my experience….” She drew in a breath and released it slowly. “The queen seems as well as can be expected.”
Usually, when they made garments for the poor, the singers or mummers Arya patronized entertained them while they worked. But Lady Marilda failed to summon them. So they must needs entertain themselves with conversation. Unfortunately, the talk never strayed far from Arya and the miscarriage. Even when Grand Maester Vorian assured them that the queen would recover, the subject rarely shifted. It was all the more vexing because Sansa couldn’t bring herself to feel the same sympathy the others had. Wasn’t it obvious that Arya brought this on herself?
Stabbing her needle into the seam of the drab garment, Sansa struggled against the frown that wished to settle onto her face.
“Miscarriages are not uncommon this early,” Joanna Umber said. “There’s a reason it’s best to wait for at least three moons before telling anyone but the maester.”
“I lost my first too,” Ellyne Gaunt said. “Before I had a chance to grieve I was with child again and gave birth to a healthy boy. Queen Arya will be the same. I am sure of it.”
“Only if Arya takes a lesson from this,” Sansa said, before she could stop herself.
She looked up from her work to find that eyes both wide and narrowed were aimed directly at her. Pressing her lips together, she struggled to find something to say that might set things to rights.
“Might we have some music?” Myrielle asked, her voice at a noticeably higher pitch.
“Lady Sansa,” Walda Frey called from across the room, the shadow of a smile on her pinched face. “What do you mean? What lesson could you mean?”
“I-”
“Did you not hear Lady Joanna?” Cassana demanded. “This can happen to any woman. Lady Sansa is just bitter and hateful.”
“Ladies!” Marilda shouted.
But Sansa gave her no heed.
“Me? Bitter and hateful?”
The Baratheon girl held her gaze. “Yes. You. You have been nothing but mean to Arya since you arrived. Even now when she’s hurting.”
This was all too much.
“Arya lost this babe because she has been running about like a half-wild man,” she announced. “Had she behaved like a proper lady, she would have grown pregnant long before now and given the king a healthy son. If Arya can take a lesson from this, she will stop putting the succession at risk just so she can pretend she’s a man.”
The silence that followed ought to have been intimidating, but she was too upset to care.
Almost as one, Alla, Cassana, Talia, Bess, and Bethany rose from their seats, glaring directly at Sansa, and charged into Arya’s bedchamber, slamming the door behind them. By then, Lady Marilda rose to her feet as well.
“Have you gone mad?” the older woman demanded.
Raised voices sounded from Arya’s bedchamber. “Stay calm,” one voice urged while another demanded, “Why would you tell her this now?” followed by, “Please stay in bed.” Marilda moved as though to investigate, but the door swung opened again and Wylla Manderly slipped out before shutting it tight. The green-haired woman charged toward Sansa.
“Get out of here now!” Wylla hissed.
Not waiting for Sansa to obey, Wylla seized her by the arm, practically lifting her to her feet and all but threw her toward the door. Scrambling to gain her footing, she found herself in the hallway staring at an alarmed guard.
“See that she leaves Maegor’s,” Wylla told the man. “And see to it that everyone guarding the holdfast knows she isn’t welcome.”
“But, but my needles!” Sansa sputtered.
“You can find your needles in the Seventh Hell,” Wylla said, before slamming the door in her face.
If she had hoped for sympathy from her husband, she was sorely disappointed.
“You do know that people have lost their heads for less?” Tyrion snapped.
“But my lord, Arya-”
“She isn’t Arya, she is the QUEEN!” he shouted in a tone that sent a spike of fear through her. “That was the king’s child she lost and you speak treason against her?”
Twisting her hands, she tried to find a way to make him understand. “But Arya’s the one who lost that babe and it was her own fault for-”
“ENOUGH! Shut your bloody mouth!”
A tightness clutched Sansa’s chest as tears pierced her eyes. Before she could stop herself, she was seized with hiccuping sobs and collapsed into a chair. She felt Tyrion rest a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see him at eye level with her and smiled bravely for him. But Tyrion looked away, his fury clearly still on him.
“Please keep to our chambers,” he said after a time. “I won’t have any more trouble from you this day.”
Sansa left their rooms the next day so she might attend the poetry meeting. Only, no one else from their group ever arrived. In fact, others in the garden avoided her as though she had greyscale. Some examined her openly as they passed by but blatantly did not return her greetings. Others looked beyond her like she didn’t exist. It was the same when she walked the halls or went to the yard. Only Rickon would speak to her and it was to ask if there was any truth in the stories of how cruel she had been to Arya.
To her mortification, Sansa found that her poetry friends had changed the time of their meetings without informing her. Jeyne mentioned it in passing one day after returning from Arya’s rooms. Her supposed friend was with her sister more and more often now. Her Pate was often amongst the other men who joined the queen’s retinue. Sansa thought it was very rude of her to spend so much time with Arya when she herself was no longer welcome in their company. But even the thought of saying so made her feel childish.
One morning, a fortnight after her falling out with Arya, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to rise from bed. She was feeling tired more often of late and a little nauseous. So Jeyne bid her goodbye in her bedchamber, a large cloak secured tightly about her.
“Is it truly so cold outside,” Sansa asked, glancing at the bright sunlight streaming through the window.
“No, but- yes- I mean...” Jeyne stammered.
She sat up in the bed. “What is it, Jeyne? Are you hiding something from me?”
“Well, yes, I…”
“Let me see.”
Reluctantly, Jeyne opened her cloak to reveal a pair of breeches and a blouse.
“I saw so many women about court wearing much the same and thought it looked so fine that I thought I might try to make something similar for myself and I thought it came out very nicely,” she said in a rush. “Don’t you?”
Sansa fell back into her pillow. “Goodbye, Jeyne.”
Arya truly did have a way of ruining everything.
A few days later, her lord husband informed her that she would attend the queen on a ride that morning.
To gainsay one’s husband was unwomanly, so she only nodded and said, “As my lord wishes.”
“I am certain it will go well,” Tyrion said, his eyebrows raised over mismatched eyes. “You are the very soul of courtesy and duty.”
“Of course, my lord,” she said.
Sansa loathed riding horses as much as Arya loved it. So it was with forced cheerfulness that she met the queen and her retinue in the yard. She knew for a certainty that her sister was forcing her on this ride out of spite. But she refused to show any sign that she was troubled by it. Armored in courtesy, she dipped into a low curtsy in greeting Arya.
“Your Grace,” she said to the ground or mayhaps to the tips of her sister’s scuffed boots.
“Lady Sansa,” Arya said in return, her boots disappearing from view one by one as she swung up into the saddle.
Without another word, Arya rode off, not waiting for Sansa to rise let alone mount up. By the time she did, the queen’s retinue was halfway down the hill and she struggled to catch up. They rode north of the city along the coast, stopping to rest and play and eat in spots the others seemed familiar with. None spoke to Sansa.
None, until they were on their way back to the city.
“Sansa, come up here with me,” Arya called.
Forcing her mare into a trot, she complied and the others seemed to slow.
Arya guided her horse to stop once King’s Landing came into view. Sansa did the same and looked back, noting how far the rest of the retinue remained. When she glanced back at Arya, she found the full force of the queen’s gaze on her.
They said nothing for a few moments. Arya continued to stare at her as she looked about, practically shaking with discomfort. This wasn't right. Arya wasn’t quiet. She was loud and unpredictable.
Finally, Arya spoke.
“I told Tyrion you wouldn’t apologize,” she said. “He offered to order you to, but I told him I didn’t want to hear your lies. We both know you’re not sorry.”
Sansa was sorry to lose her friends and sorry that her husband was cross with her and sorry that her hopes of court life were ruined by her horrible sister. But no, she was not sorry for what she said about Arya. It was the truth. Someday, when Prince Viserys or his son sat the Iron Throne in place of King Aegon’s heirs, they would see that she had been right about Arya and how unnatural she was.
It was a struggle to keep her mouth tightly shut.
“If you had lied about being sorry, I would have had no choice but to keep you as one of my ladies,” Arya continued. “Tyrion worked very hard to convince us to give you this chance. He is very intelligent. But he’s stupid when it comes to you. He doesn’t see who you are. I see what you are far better now than I did in Winterfell. That’s why I agreed.”
The calmness in Arya’s voice unsettled Sansa even more than the silence had. Her little sister should be screaming and crying and calling her names, while Sansa looked down at her in contempt or pity. This was very new ground for them and it sped up the anxiety building in her chest.
“A few days ago, I wished you had never come or had simply joined someone else’s train,” Arya said. “But I realized that wasn’t right.”
Sansa blinked at her, hating how unpredictable she was. Why couldn’t she be understandable like everyone else?
“You coming here and trying to treat me the same way you were allowed to do in Winterfell… that was a great help to me. Before, I worried that I wasn’t what a queen or a wife ought to be. I worried that most of my ladies would never respect me.”
Arya shook her head and smiled her horsy smile.
“But you coming here being so… Sansa. You showed me that I was wrong. My ladies and the court rallied around me. The commons seem to like me. My husband adores me. The only thing amiss has always been you. I love our lady mother, but she was wrong to tell me to be like you. Had I listened to her, I wouldn’t be half so good a queen as I am.”
Sansa clutched the reins in her hands. In Winterfell, Arya had had Father, Aunt Lya, their bastard cousin, her septa, and even their brothers indulging her. Now she had the whole realm. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
“It’s only a shame that you didn’t finish helping with the clothes for the commons before Wylla threw you out,” Arya said. “Gaining one last batch of clothes from you would have been a fine thing for the commons. You did well at that, even if you did hate making them.”
“Why should I want to make clothes for- for-” Suddenly the full rage of it all just burst out of her. “-for nasty, smelly peasants!”
“Kindness!” Arya shot back, raising her voice for the first time. “It’s called kindness, Sansa. The songs and stories you love so well ought to have taught you this. Those heroines are kind or they learn kindness. But you’re too stu-” Arya’s small chest heaved and she chewed her lip in that disgusting way she always did. “These are people. They deserve new clothes even if they can’t buy or make them for themselves. But you never knew anything about kindness, did you? Not ever.”
Sansa felt as though the air had been punched out of her. How could her stupid, ugly sister claim that she didn’t understand kindness? She was kind to everyone. Sansa always knew just the right courtesies to say, and just the right expression to grace her face. When she passed by the commons, she always made certain to smile down at them and wave. Even when someone made a mistake or made a fool of themselves, Sansa was always certain to be polite and only mocked them in private with her companions. No one could ever accuse her of not being kind.
No one but her stupid sister.
Sansa wanted to say so many things, but before she could latch onto one, she found her sister watching her. Arya had a queer expression on her horsy face that Sansa had never seen before. It was almost as if she were examining Sansa for the first time and finding her wanting.
“I almost called you stupid,” Arya said. “But you’re not. You’re too cruel to learn kindness, not too stupid. I won’t have unkind people in my service. You are dismissed.”
With that, Arya turned her horse as easily as if the beast were a part of her own body and she rode away, leaving Sansa to struggle after her back to the city.
A few days later, Sansa was ever so relieved to receive an invitation to tea with Princess Elia. That meant she hadn’t been completely shut out of King’s Landing society. Mayhaps once word got out, she would be welcomed back into some of the social circles amongst the noblewomen. But thoughts of that fled from her when Princess Elia began to speak.
“Surely we can both agree that your time here at court has been far from pleasant,” the princess said. “The queen and I have discussed the matter and feel that your departure would be just the thing to solve the issue. The gods seem to agree as well as they have provided us with the perfect excuse. You are with child, I hear.”
Blinking, Sansa struggled to understand, though the words were clear as anything. How would her leaving solve the problem of Arya being so horrible? How did she know of her pregnancy when she had only just told Tyrion?
“I- I don’t- I have no wish to leave King’s Landing,” she insisted. “I love it ever so much. Mayhaps…” ….Arya ought to be sent back to Winterfell so the king might wed a true lady…. “.....mayhaps, I might join your service. I have always admired your gentleness and grace. I would serve you with such devotion, emulating your own great charms.”
Elia laughed. "Arya suggested that more than once when your husband made a bid to find a place for you here. But Lord Tyrion wished for the very highest position possible for his wife and I thought it would appear strange if you entered my service rather than your own sister’s. But Arya was right and seeing how you conducted yourself, I would not have you.”
It was as though the words were a physical blow. Sansa fell back into her seat, desperately searching for a way to fix this. Something she might say to charm her or make her see that she was the good one. Something that would set this to rights, but...
“Arya’s the one who’s caused all the trouble!” Sansa wailed, losing herself completely under this beautiful and dignified woman’s gaze. If only she could make her understand. If she had come to serve a better queen. If Arya wasn’t so wicked. If, if, if, if…. “She’s running about not caring about her courtesies and dressing like a man and she can’t even-”
“You are wrong,” Princess Elia said firmly. “The queen dresses like a woman. It is not to my taste, nor need it be to yours, but women in Dorne have worn trousers for hundreds of years if they chose. Other cultures in Essos are the same. Arya has worn them in the North as well. She is now making the style more fashionable here. I wouldn’t be surprised if women all around Westeros donned trousers just as often as dresses before long. You see, royals, the queen especially, are often the leaders of fashion. You and I may well find ourselves behind the times.”
Sansa struggled to find a response to that, but her mouth only opened and closed a few times, wordlessly.
“But I did not invite you here to discuss fashion,” the princess continued. “This is your third pregnancy, I believe?”
“Yes, my third,” Sansa confirmed, relieved to find the use of speech again.
“You will of course wish to return to Casterly Rock for the birth.”
“Well, I-”
“That wasn’t a question.” Princess Elia’s smile was sharp as a blade. “As I noted before, you don’t seem to be a good fit for this court anymore. Your pregnancy will serve as the perfectly reasonable and not at all scandalous reason for your departure.”
“But that’s not f-” Sansa stopped herself, knowing she sounded like a child. Her mind scrambled for a way to make them let her stay. The princess did not control who could remain at court, that was … the queen. Arya. Or the king, but… the image of him laughing with Arya, hair dyed blue and wearing peasant clothes as they returned from a day walking amongst the commons flashed through her mind.
Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes. It wasn’t fair! Arya ruined everything. Even the sparkling, beautiful court she had loved so well.
“Queen Arya and I agreed that you will tell her your happy news within the hearing of as many as possible at the feast on the morrow,” the princess continued. “You will beg her leave to return home to have your child. She will graciously give her permission and you will leave within the fortnight. Is that well understood?”
Sansa nodded.
“Good.” Elia smiled and took a sip of tea. “My congratulations on your pregnancy, by the way.”
When her lord husband returned to their rooms that evening, Sansa knew exactly what to tell him. She had practiced repeatedly before a mirror to make certain her tone and expression were flawless.
“My lord, I wish to return to Casterly Rock,” she said. “I miss Tyland and little Daenerys ever so much, and I would have Septa Mordane with me when my time comes, just as she was with me when I birthed our first two. Please let me, if it pleases you.”
Tyrion took her hand. “It does not please me. I will miss you. But yes. You ought to return home if that will make you happy.”
To her surprise, Sansa found that the prospect of returning home to Casterly Rock did make her happy. After going through the performance at the feast, requesting Arya’s leave to depart, she went about preparing to return home, her heart light and spirits high. Home. The affection she held for the Rock now that she had spent so many unpleasant months away from it was new. Yet, once she arrived home after a fortnight’s journey, she had convinced herself that she had always loved her new home from the very first. In fact, she had dreaded leaving in the first place and only went as a duty to her husband.
The only sadness in departing King’s Landing was losing Rickon, Jeyne, and Tyrion’s company. So it was that in the yard the morning of her departure, she squeezed her little brother and laughed when he leaned back to lift her off her feet.
“When next we meet, you’ll be taller than me,” she said, giving him one final kiss on the cheek.
Jeyne embraced her as well, vowing to write as often as she could.
Parting from her lord husband was more formal since they were in public, but they had been as affectionate as anything with each other in the confines of their own rooms.
“I will follow after six moons hence for the birth,” Tyrion vowed before closing the door to her wheelhouse.
A fortnight later, Sansa was home.
Genna and Gerion greeted her at the Lion's Mouth with most of the household, kneeling and curtsying at her arrival. Septa Mordane couldn’t do enough, pampering her after the journey and exclaiming over how perfect the babes had been. Sansa saw them for herself in the nursery and was delighted to see how much her son and daughter had grown. Daenerys was just shy of a year old and using everything within her reach to support clumsy attempts at walking. Tyland, a sturdy boy of three, chattered away in half-formed sentences.
“Only a Lannister can love the Rock,” Tyrion had once confessed to her in the earlier days of their marriage when Sansa was feeling homesick and out of place.
Settling into bed that night, Tyland chattering beside her of all his little adventures, Sansa realized that wasn’t true. She was only a Lannister by marriage and would always draw strength from being a Stark. But a fondness had grown in her heart for Casterly Rock with its beautiful sunsets over the western sea from the balconies and the enclosed heart tree and of course her two babes. She was only missing Tyrion to make her happiness complete.
What did being the queen’s sister matter when she had all this?