The Governess's Secret, Part 1
Written for asoiafkinkmeme--the characters belong to GRRM.
Lady Sansa Stark got off the regular London to Lannisport train, at the Lannisport railway station. She looked at her wristwatch-the train had arrived in time at six o’clock; she hoped the transport to Casterly Rock, which Sir Kevan Lannister promised her when he interviewed her in London, would arrive soon. The porter had been kind enough to help her get her bags off the train and into the waiting room-she hoped the tip she’d given him was adequate. She gave herself a critical look in the mirror in the waiting room, as she tidied herself after her journey. She was a beautiful girl, with her auburn hair, blue eyes, sharp features and fair skin-she’d inherited her father’s height and her mother’s fullness of figure. She was dressed neatly but plainly in a dark knee-length skirt and jacket, matched with a simple white blouse with a little lace on the collar. She was twenty-one-she had graduated from university a year ago and completed her teaching diploma recently. She had been hired by Sir Kevan, on behalf of his eldest brother, Lord Tywin Lannister, the banker and media magnate, to work as a governess for his two youngest grandchildren, Myrcella and Tommen, who had lost their father, Lord Robert Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone, in a railway accident six months ago.
She had just finished tidying up when she heard the door of the waiting room slam open. She turned around and was confronted by the sight of an extremely muscular and big-built man, over six feet tall, who stood glaring at her out of a half-burnt face. She could feel her jaw drop as she looked at him.
“Are you the governess Sir Kevan hired?” the man barked at her in a raspy voice.
“Yes, I am.“ She said, almost stammering.
“Where are your bags? Over here? Thank heavens! Well, don’t stand waiting around, girl-I’ve got things to do! Follow me.” He hefted her bags one-handed as he ushered her out of the waiting room.
She did as he asked, till they walked out of the station and up to a black Land Rover. He tossed the bags into the back-she hoped the bottle of perfume that she had packed so carefully would not break despite his callous handling of her belongings. He helped her into the passenger seat and then took the wheel. He reversed the Land Rover and drove away from the station, towards Casterly Rock. She sat quietly, staring straight ahead into the darkening sky; it was September, still warm for this time of year.
“So,” the man said, glancing her way as he drove toward the coast, “you’re the one who’ll be teaching young Tommen and Myrcella, now that the old bat has gone to nurse her mother? Eh?”
“Yes.” She said, trying to sound certain-the very sight of him had given her a shock. She had never seen a man so badly burnt-the entire right side of his face was horribly scarred. She wondered how it had happened-perhaps it was a war injury.
“Don’t talk much, do you?” the man asked her, with a chuckle.
“No, I don’t-not as a rule.” She said, trying to sound polite.
“May as well introduce myself while I’m about it. Name’s Sandor Clegane-I take care of the grounds of Casterly Rock. You must be Sansa Stark, eh?” He took one hand off the wheel and extended it to her-it was huge.
“Yes, I am.” She tried to smile at him-he was being polite and she should reciprocate like a lady-as she gave him her hand to shake. It disappeared into his paw.
“Sorry for being so gruff and all. Just remembered I had to pick you up from the station when Lord Tyrion reminded me. I was just going to take off for the pub. Just think-there you would have been, waiting hour after hour, for someone to come pick you up from the station, while I sat drinking beer, if that gargoyle hadn’t reminded me about picking up the governess.” He chuckled-evidently the thought of her waiting for transport at the station was very funny.
“Yes, I can well imagine,” she said sweetly-she would not lose her temper with him; she was certain he had a lot to do, and picking her up from the station would have been the last thing on his mind. Large estates like Casterly Rock did not run themselves; and after two world wars, the staff required to run large homes and estates just was not there. She was relieved when, after the war was over, her mother had decided to shift the family from the castle of Winterfell, which they gave to the local agricultural college, to the guest house, which was just large enough to meet their needs. She was glad her mother still had some of the staff-Gage, Poole, Mikken, Farlen, Harwin and Hullen-to run the house; Mama had seen to it the others got to work for the college. She thought father would have approved Mama’s practicality, although Arya disagreed with her, as usual. They had been well compensated, by the college and the Ministry for Coal, which had nationalised the mines the Starks had owned for generations-it helped to pay for the children’s education, as her mother told Brienne, who’d come north during the war as a land girl, and continued to stay with the Starks after the war was long over.
“Sir Kevan said most of the family was living at the Rock,” she said, trying to make conversation.
“Yes, they are-you’ll have your hands full with the children. The old bat couldn’t handle it-she was a Londoner born and bred-she was hired to care for Tommen and Myrcella only. Then Her Grace decided to stay with Papa when His Grace had a bit too much brandy and tumbled off that train in France. Good thing Colonel Selmy was awake and stopped the train-otherwise they’d have had to scrape his body off the rails with shovels.” He laughed at that; she was repelled by the thought of someone dying such a gruesome death.
“Did His Grace always drink a lot?” she asked Clegane.
“Eh? What? Drink? Oh, yes-he was fond of the bottle and the girls. Led Her Grace quite a life, I can tell you that! Never a dull moment with him around. Of course, it got worse after he lost his best friend in the Blitz in ’40-he started drinking as soon as he got out of bed. Her Grace hated that-they used to fight all the time about his drinking and his women. The two young’uns know nothing about it-he’s ten and she’s four years older. Joffrey was away at school in those days. I used to drive her around town-she was doing all sorts of war work, just to keep away from her husband and his family.”
Sansa remembered the war all too well. Father had gone to London when the Blitz was at its height, because Lord Robert Baratheon had need of him. Jon Arryn, who had been guardian to Lord Robert and her father, when they both lost their fathers in the First World War, died suddenly and Father was needed to take his place. He and his secretary, Jory Cassel, and their driver, Wyl, were found dead in the East End after an air raid. She had been a girl of twelve then, her head full of romantic notions-she had come down to earth with a thump when her father died. She and Robb and Jon had to learn to be strong and responsible, for mother and the younger children.
Mother had not given way to her grief; she had done her duty during the war, taking in the refugees from the East End, helping to nurse the wounded and keeping the experimental farm at Winterfell, the pride and glory of the Starks, running during the darkest days of the war, to provide food for the country. Uncle Edmure had been taken prisoner in Europe when his plane was shot down; her mother supported Aunt Roslin through her pregnancy. Grandfather Hoster had died soon after that, of cancer; Mother sat by him, hour after hour. Uncle Brynden, her mother’s uncle, and Uncle Benjen, her father’s younger brother, kept disappearing on mysterious missions into occupied Europe-mother remained stoic through it all.
She’d had no support from her sister, Lysa, the widow of Jon Arryn, who had taken off for Switzerland with her son, her maid and a personal physician, as soon as Jon was buried. She’d chosen to reside in a castle on a mountain and had not kept in touch with her family at all.
“You were saying I’d have my hands full with the children?” she asked the man Clegane-she’d already spoken of this with Sir Kevan; but she had to make conversation till they reached the Rock.
“Oh, yes-there’s Tommen and Myrcella; Willem, Martyn and Janei, Sir Kevan’s children; Cerenna and Myrielle, Sir Stafford’s daughters; and Joy Hill, Captain Gerion Lannister’s daughter. He’s the one missing in action. The old bat-sorry, Miss Eglantine--could not be bothered about the other children. And then she kept on about her mum who was ill. So Her Grace let her go. “
They had arrived at the Rock. Clegane helped her get off the vehicle and walked her to the front door, holding her bags in his hands. The door was opened by a gaunt, grim man, with a pockmarked and beardless face. She could not help noticing his deep-set eyes and his hollow cheeks. He was evidently the butler.
“Here, Payne,” said Clegane to the butler, “show Miss Stark to her room, will you? And take these bags-I’m off to the pub.” The butler merely glanced at him-Sandor dumped the bags at his feet, and left. The butler flicked his fingers-two footmen materialized out of nowhere to pick up the bags as Sansa prepared to follow her guide up the stairs. He silently showed her to her room and merely nodded when she thanked him and the footmen. When she asked what time dinner would be served (for Sir Kevan had informed her that the governess and the children ate with the family), the butler did not speak; he merely glanced at a footman who said, “Eight o’clock, ma’am, sharp.” She thanked them once again.
It was now six forty-five; she had enough time for a quick wash and change. She supposed they would beat a gong to call everyone for dinner. She was glad to see that someone had left a can filled with hot water in her room. She changed into a simple gray evening gown with a modest neckline, brushed out her hair and pinned it up in a simple knot. She wondered what she should do next, when she heard a knock at her door.
She opened it, to find a man four feet tall, with stunted legs, a large head covered with lank platinum-gold hair that fell over his massive forehead, a face with squashed-in features and mismatched eyes, one green and one black, gazing straight at her. He was dressed in the height of fashion, in evening clothes. She would have gaped at him in horror, if he had not stretched out his stubby-fingered hand to her in greeting:
“Good evening, Lady Sansa; I hope Clegane got to the station in time. He did? That’s excellent. I’m Tyrion Lannister--may I walk you down? I thought you might find it a little difficult to find your way around Casterly, since you’ve just arrived. It’s quite an interesting building, architecturally speaking-goes back to the early middle ages...”
He talked on in this pleasant fashion while they made their way to the drawing room, a vast space done up in crimson and gold. It must have been a very warm room in winter, Sansa thought, because of the colours, but it would have been oppressively hot in summer. He offered her a drink-Sansa chose a sherry. She sipped at it delicately, while Lord Tyrion enjoyed a whisky-and-soda and gave her chapter and verse about the history of his home.
They were sitting there, making conversation and enjoying their drinks, when an extremely good-looking but very angry young man barged into the room, almost slamming the door against the wall in his rage. He was not dressed for dinner-it was evident he had been out riding; he reeked of horse-flesh and his clothes were covered in dust. He was tall, blonde, green-eyed and sharp-featured-although Sansa was faintly repelled by his thick lips. He was almost frothing in the mouth as he screamed at them-Sansa could not help but remember a rabid dog she’d seen her father shoot as a child:
“Have you read the letter Stannis sent Pycelle? Have you? That bloody man-I’ll kill the lot of them! Him and his wife and his ugly little daughter! How dare he tell Pycelle that I’m illegitimate! How dare he! How dare he make allegations about my poor mother? Has she not suffered enough? What with Father’s drinking and his whores and his bastards! I never liked him-I hope he dies soon!”
“And good evening to you too, Joffrey!” said his uncle amiably as he got up off the chair where he’d seated himself next to Sansa. “I gather you’ve been to see Creylen-I presume Pycelle sent him a copy of the letter he received? Don’t you think matters of such delicacy should be discussed in your grandfather’s study-and not in the drawing room, just before dinner? By the by, may I introduce you to this charming young lady-Lady Sansa, my nephew, Joffrey Baratheon. I believe your father and his were dear friends.”
“Of course-Father used to speak very affectionately of Lord Robert Baratheon, Your Grace,” she said, looking at Joffrey. “I sincerely condole with you in your grief at the loss of your parent.”
“I don’t need your bloody condolences, you bloody bitch!” Joffrey almost screamed at her in a fury, as he advanced on her, his fists clenched. “If you’ve come to claim your rights as my fiancée,” he snarled at her, his spittle almost flying in her face, “I’ll see you whipped out of this house and this town.”
Sansa stared at him, speechless-she did not know what he was talking about. Just then, a tall, elegant man clad in evening dress strode into the room, grabbed Joffrey by the collar of his shirt, swung him around and slapped his face, hard. Sansa stared at them both, aghast-the man who had just entered the room and struck Joffrey looked like an older version of him, except for his thin lips, which were twisted in a sneer.
“My dear Joffrey,” he said, in a voice as cold as steel, “if you do not learn to control your temper; if you do not learn to behave when introduced to a young lady in a drawing room in your grandfather’s house; if you continue to make baseless assumptions about people when you meet them-you will have a very gory and unpleasant end indeed. Please apologize to Lady Sansa at once,” he continued, in a voice filled with the snap of a command, “leave this room, go and bathe-you stink of the stable-and come back in evening dress in fifteen minutes flat. If you don’t, you can go to bed hungry for all I care. Do you understand?”
“Yes-yes-of course, U-Uncle Jaime-my apologies, Lady Sansa, Uncle Tyrion.” And the young man fled the room like a whipped cur. Sansa could only stare after him, shocked.
Lord Tyrion cleared his throat, “Allow me, Lady Sansa, to introduce my brother Jaime. You must have heard of his career in the air force during the war?”
“Yes-yes, of course. My brother Bran is a great admirer of yours, Squadron-Leader Lannister-he plans to join the RAF when he grows up.”
Jaime turned to her and gave her a weary smile. “Thank you, Lady Sansa-I suppose you must be the young lady Uncle Kevan hired to teach the brats. They’re not a bad lot-but they do enjoy playing jokes on the unwary. Don’t be surprised to find earwigs in your spectacle case or a frog on your pillow.”
“I don’t know about the frog, sir-but I don’t wear spectacles, so I can’t imagine where they’d put the earwigs!”
Jaime was just laughing at this weak joke when in walked the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen-she was in a right royal temper. She was dressed in a black evening gown, simple, elegant and French, which showed off her figure admirably, and she wore a necklace and earrings of magnificent pigeon-blood rubies. Her hair was elaborately plaited and put up to resemble a coronet of gold. She made a beeline for Squadron-Leader Jaime Lannister.
“How could you speak like that to Joffrey? The poor boy’s had the shock of his life because of that letter Stannis sent Pycelle. And then,” she turned blazing green eyes in Sansa’s direction, “to find this creature in the drawing room...what in blazes did Uncle Kevan mean by hiring Ned Stark’s daughter as the governess?”
“A very good question, Cersei,” responded Jaime, amiably. “Perhaps you should have specified your requirements clearly to Uncle Kevan before you asked him to look for a governess for the children. Knowing my uncle, he would have looked for the best-I’m sure Lady Sansa’s qualifications...”
“Oh, I don’t care for that at all!” blazed his sister, who was not mollified by his conciliatory manner. “I told him to find me...”
Sansa did not find out what Lady Cersei had wanted Sir Kevan to find her, because in walked a gentleman at the very sight of whom both Squadron-Leader Lannister and his brother straightened to attention. He was a tall, bald, muscular man in his early fifties, with pale green eyes flecked with gold and silvery blonde side-whiskers framing his face from ear to jaw. He spoke icily to his daughter:
“Cersei, you shame your family with your lack of manners. Lady Sansa, welcome to Casterly Rock.” His manner to her was correct, cold and formal. She responded politely and respectfully-her father may have deplored Lord Tywin’s politics, which had led him to support any political movement, as long as it was anti-communist in nature, but she was his employee. “Thank you, Lord Tywin. Lord Tyrion was telling me all about its history.”
“Yes, it is an old house-but I hear Winterfell is older-goes back to Roman times, so they say.”
“I don’t know, my lord-father always planned to have the lower levels excavated, but the war intervened.”
Lady Cersei turned on her, her red lips smirking, and spoke to her, in a mock-sympathetic tone. “It must have been such a come-down for your family, giving the castle to an agricultural college, of all things, and having to muck about in the guest house.”
“Not really, Your Grace,” Sansa responded, calmly. “The castle was well-suited for use as a college; my family had always supported agricultural experiments, so giving it to the college seemed the right thing to do. And the guest house is just the right size for us-with staff shortages...”
Cersei turned her back to her, giving Sansa a cut direct. However, Tyrion intervened, asking Sansa a question about their library. “I hope it is still intact-I remember visiting Winterfell a long time ago; I was looking for a manuscript I needed to read for my research-I could only find it in your library. Your father was kind enough to let me use it.”
“The library is in good shape-Papa had the books packed up and stored in the crypt when France and Norway fell, before he went to London. We gave the library to Wintertown-they’re setting up a university there; the agricultural college will be affiliated to it.”
“Oh, how philanthropic of you!” Cersei cooed, in a mock-sweet tone of voice, her eyes revealing her rage. “And are you a graduate of this new university, then?”
“No, Your Grace-I went to Somerville, on a scholarship.”
Before Cersei could respond to this statement with yet another barb, three ladies in late middle age walked in, followed by a horde of children and two or three young men. Lord Tywin introduced Sansa to his sister Genna and his sisters-in-law, Darlessa and Dorna. The three ladies were responsible for the running of the house and the estate, while the men worked at building business empires, flying planes or studying and teaching history. Then Tyrion introduced her to the children, who had mobbed him instantly-it seemed that he was their favourite relative. Joffrey was the last to walk in; although he was dressed to the nines in a well-cut evening suit, there was something of the beaten dog about him. The gong for dinner sounded as he entered the room-Sansa took a surreptitious peek at her wristwatch to discover that it was indeed eight o’clock. They walked in to dinner; Sansa noticed she was seated exactly in line with the salt cellar.
She tried to make conversation with the two gentlemen seated either side of her. Captain Daven Lannister had just returned from serving in the army in Germany; he had met Robb there and got along well with him. He was engaged to one of the Frey girls, a relative of her aunt Roslin’s. They had an amusing discussion on the family Frey, which occupied them during the soup and salad course. Lancel Lannister, whom she attempted to talk to during the main course, did not seem ready or willing to respond with anything more than monosyllables. When the meal was over, she left the table with the women and the children, to leave the men to their port and cigars.
As she followed the women and the children out of the room, Lady Cersei turned to face her and said in a voice everyone could hear:
“You may as well begin your duties now, Sansa-please escort the children to their beds. I want to see them asleep in an hour, or else.” Her eyes conveyed the message clearly: or else you’ll be out on the next train...
“But Mother, you promised...” Tommen wailed, and Myrcella joined in. “You promised you’d let us sit up tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday-we don’t have lessons on weekends.” She grabbed Sansa by one hand, and Janei grabbed the other. “I want to sit in the drawing room and have hot chocolate,” she said firmly.
Lady Genna joined in. “For shame, Cersei-the girl’s just arrived barely three hours ago. Let her have an evening of peace. Tomorrow, after breakfast,” she said firmly to Sansa, pushing her in the direction of the drawing room, “the children will sit down with you and tell you what they’ve been studying with Miss Eglantine. For now, just get to know them better.”
Sansa felt a little awkward at seeing Lady Cersei so easily outmanoeuvred by her aunt and the children-but it was obvious the children did not want to go to bed so early. She sat down with them and listened to their conversations, giving her opinion when asked for it. Of course, as Sir Kevan had warned her, they began by telling her of the various ghosts that haunted Casterly Rock-Lady Joanna being the most prominent.
“I’ve seen her,” Myrcella said in an authoritative but low voice-it was evident she did not want to be overheard by her mother.
“Where?” Janei asked, all agog.
“You know her rooms are always kept locked? Only Grandfather, Mother and Uncle Jaime are allowed inside? Well, when I was climbing Lion’s Leap-it’s that hill just opposite the Rock, Lady Sansa-I saw her. She was in a white nightgown drenched in blood and she stood at the window, looking out.”
Payne walked in just then, leading a bevy of footmen who first carried the coffee tray to Lady Cersei and her aunts and then a tray with hot chocolate milk for the children. She noticed he gave her a mug of hot chocolate as well-she had no objection, since she wanted a good night’s sleep. The gentlemen walked in and joined the ladies.
Sansa left with the children, after wishing everyone a good night. She had the children tucked into bed-Tommen shared a room with Willem and Martyn Lannister, who were twins, but not identical; Willem had sandy hair, whereas Martyn’s hair veered towards gold. The girls shared a common room-they were lying, whispering in bed, when Sansa came to tuck them in. She put off the lights after shushing them to sleep and went to her own room, which was not too far from theirs’-they were located in the nursery wing, as Tyrion had informed her earlier in the evening.
She had just got into bed and put her head on the pillow when she felt something rustle, between the pillow and its case. It seemed that someone had left a paper there. She switched on the bedside lamp, put her hand into the pillow and pulled out the paper. It was a letter, apparently addressed to her mother, bearing Robert Baratheon’s signature. Sansa opened it, to read:
My dear Catelyn,
It has been many years since we met last in 1940. Sometimes, I think I did the wrong thing-if only I had not sent for Ned to come to London, to help when Jon died, he might yet be alive. But I needed him then, as I always needed him and Jon. The two of them gave me the courage to bear the loss of my parents-I hope I gave Ned the strength to face his losses when he lost his father and Brandon. And then there was the loss of Lyanna, which wounded us both. I should have been there for you and the children, as Ned was there for me when I needed him. I can never forgive myself for that, war or no war.
There is another reason why I’m writing this letter-you must have guessed that already; you must suspect me of an ulterior motive (in any case) in getting in touch with you almost nine years after his death. Well, there are one or two. I need answers to a few questions-perhaps Ned wrote to you or called you before he died. If he did so, please tell me:
If you do have the answers to these questions, please write to me at the Hotel __________ in Paris-I shall be visiting briefly after inspecting our Mediterranean fleet.
Yours,
Robert Baratheon
The letter was dated a week before his death-he wrote it before he left for France.
Sansa did not know what to believe-it was evident that Robert Baratheon suspected something about her father’s death; else he would not be asking all these questions or writing to her mother so many years after the event. She wondered if she should find an excuse to go to Lannisport and post this letter, with a covering note, to Mama. Or should she burn it instead? Catelyn, she thought, had suffered enough when Eddard died in that air raid-why should she open those wounds that had taken nine years to heal? She wondered how Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Jon would react-they would all want vengeance against those who had done their father to death. She did not want to post the letter-not until she was certain it was written by Robert Baratheon. Of course, she could ask her mother if he had written to her after Lord Eddard’s death-both Uncle Brynden and Uncle Benjen knew enough cops to find a handwriting expert who could compare the two notes to see if this was Robert Baratheon’s handwriting, and not a forgery calculated to sow distrust and suspicion in the minds of its readers.
She was pondering what action to take when she heard the phone in the nursery wing ring loudly. She looked at the time-it was almost eleven. She threw on a dressing gown-she wanted to make sure the children were not awakened by the sound. It rang again and again-it had stopped ringing when she reached it, somewhat out of breath, and picked it up.
Two men were talking on the phone. She recognized one of the voices-it was Jaime Lannister. He was talking angrily to the man at the other end of the line, who kept trying to interrupt him.
“Listen, Petyr, what makes you think the girl knows something? Joffrey threw that bit about Robert planning an engagement between the two of them-she hadn’t heard of it at all. Perhaps Ned did not tell his wife everything he discussed with his best friend-I’m sure he never told her who Jon Snow’s mother was.”
Sansa listened breathlessly-she knew she was eavesdropping, and eavesdroppers heard nothing but evil of themselves. But it was evident these men knew how and why her father had died-she would not put the phone down, propriety be damned.
“My dear Jaime,” the man at the other end of the line spoke, in a patient tone of voice, the sort of voice used with idiots. “I think I told you, did I not, that my hysterical little Lysa wrote to her sister-she sent her a gift of a pair of German binoculars with a note in code. I told you, did I not, that the girls used to amuse themselves making up secret languages and codes? They trusted me-I was Lysa’s age and not such a baby as Edmure. I know she wrote to her sister, accusing your family of murdering the late, great Jon Arryn. She confessed to me, the naughty girl-she said she did it to cover up her own crime. I’m certain that when Ned went to London, to aid Robert in the war effort after Jon’s death, he planned to look into Jon’s murder as well. I told you, did I not, that he was following the same trails and clues as Jon was-Stannis’ trails and clues-and he would come to the same conclusions as Jon had. I warned you that you and your sister, and your children, were in danger, unless you got rid of Ned. Now, find a way to get rid of the girl.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Petyr-if the girl disappears for no good reason, won’t her family come looking? She’s been hired as a governess by my uncle-my father and brother approve of her, as do the aunts and cousins. They don’t know anything, as yet, about us-Cersei and me. If anything happens to the girl, they will get to the bottom of it. Tyrion and my father and Uncle Kevan-they’re all relentless in their own way, and very, very unforgiving. Father, for one, questioned me even more sternly than a Scotland Yard detective when Ned and his men died. He heard I’d been in the area-did you find a way to get word to him? You better not have-I know a few things about you that would put you and keep you behind bars, here or in Switzerland. I think we should let sleeping dogs lie-the girl knows nothing. I don’t know how much Catelyn knows or suspects-but she never got the letter Robert wrote her. He gave it to Lancel to post-and Lancel read the letter and told Cersei about it. He said he destroyed it-why would he lie? He idolizes Cersei-slobbers over her, if you ask me-but he has been useful. And as for Police Commissioner Slynt-he should be happy with Harrenhal-I nearly went bust paying for it. I have no intention of talking to my father to talk to someone to get him a safe seat in the House of Commons. Making him an MP seems to be too high a price to pay-I might just turn virtuous and confess all my crimes at one go.”
Petyr evidently said something in disagreement, after which Jaime responded with:
“Listen, Petyr, you seem to be a really clever chap-you can travel under the radar and gain everyone’s confidence so easily. Why not find a way to get rid of Stannis for us-and I’ll keep quiet about your affair with Lysa? He’s writing all those insulting letters about us-someone is sure to ask questions-no smoke without fire-that sort of thing. You were bloody smart in telling us how to get rid of Ned and his secretary and driver-I don’t think I ever felt more grateful for an air raid in the East End. The bombs did a good job of hiding the bullet holes. You get rid of Stannis-and I’ll forget that Pycelle told me Jon Arryn was suffering from arsenic poisoning when he examined him. Pycelle, unlike that young fool Colemon, knows his poisons. Lysa must have been giving it to him, right? I’m glad I never agreed to wed her-it would have been me and not Jon Arryn who would have been in his grave.”
When Petyr protested loudly, Jaime responded with, “Listen, you bastard, I got rid of Jon’s valet for you-the one who was blackmailing you and Lysa with your affair and the poisoning. I got Gregor to get rid of him for you during basic training. You get rid of Stannis-and no, I will not have the girl hurt. Not by Cersei or Joffrey. She knows nothing; she’s an innocent for all her university education. And for God’s sake,” he snapped, when Petyr continued to squawk, “don’t call me at this unearthly hour and not at this number-do you realise this is the extension number? Anyone in the house can pick it up and listen in. What if Joffrey or my father were to find out what we’d done? We’d be toast, do you realise that? No; we do what I told you-I call you from the bar in the Lannisport hotel when I need to speak to you. You leave a message asking to speak to me with the bartender or with Sandor Clegane, no one else. Don’t call the house, Petyr-or I’ll land up in Switzerland, shoot your wife and son and make it look like you did it. Good night.”
Sansa heard the phone slam down simultaneously at both ends. She put the receiver down, her hand shaking. She did not think she would ever forget the conversation that she had overheard. No, she did not plan to leave-nor did she plan to ask for leave so soon after her arrival here. She knew she would get a weekend to herself once in two weeks-Sir Kevan had promised her that. Very well then; the Saturday after next, she would go to Lannisport, find a quiet place-the parlour of the local inn or the reading room of the local library-and write to her mother, enclosing Robert Baratheon’s letter in her note. Her family-the Tullys and the Starks-might have lost a lot in the war, but they would find the means to get justice. She hoped and prayed that Stannis Baratheon would stay alive till then. She would be the best governess ever, till next Saturday-she would make certain they had no complaints about her conduct. She looked into the children’s rooms, to find them sleeping soundly-she then made her way back to her own bed, only to stare at the ceiling hour after hour, unable to sleep.
Lady Sansa Stark got off the regular London to Lannisport train, at the Lannisport railway station. She looked at her wristwatch-the train had arrived in time at six o’clock; she hoped the transport to Casterly Rock, which Sir Kevan Lannister promised her when he interviewed her in London, would arrive soon. The porter had been kind enough to help her get her bags off the train and into the waiting room-she hoped the tip she’d given him was adequate. She gave herself a critical look in the mirror in the waiting room, as she tidied herself after her journey. She was a beautiful girl, with her auburn hair, blue eyes, sharp features and fair skin-she’d inherited her father’s height and her mother’s fullness of figure. She was dressed neatly but plainly in a dark knee-length skirt and jacket, matched with a simple white blouse with a little lace on the collar. She was twenty-one-she had graduated from university a year ago and completed her teaching diploma recently. She had been hired by Sir Kevan, on behalf of his eldest brother, Lord Tywin Lannister, the banker and media magnate, to work as a governess for his two youngest grandchildren, Myrcella and Tommen, who had lost their father, Lord Robert Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone, in a railway accident six months ago.
She had just finished tidying up when she heard the door of the waiting room slam open. She turned around and was confronted by the sight of an extremely muscular and big-built man, over six feet tall, who stood glaring at her out of a half-burnt face. She could feel her jaw drop as she looked at him.
“Are you the governess Sir Kevan hired?” the man barked at her in a raspy voice.
“Yes, I am.“ She said, almost stammering.
“Where are your bags? Over here? Thank heavens! Well, don’t stand waiting around, girl-I’ve got things to do! Follow me.” He hefted her bags one-handed as he ushered her out of the waiting room.
She did as he asked, till they walked out of the station and up to a black Land Rover. He tossed the bags into the back-she hoped the bottle of perfume that she had packed so carefully would not break despite his callous handling of her belongings. He helped her into the passenger seat and then took the wheel. He reversed the Land Rover and drove away from the station, towards Casterly Rock. She sat quietly, staring straight ahead into the darkening sky; it was September, still warm for this time of year.
“So,” the man said, glancing her way as he drove toward the coast, “you’re the one who’ll be teaching young Tommen and Myrcella, now that the old bat has gone to nurse her mother? Eh?”
“Yes.” She said, trying to sound certain-the very sight of him had given her a shock. She had never seen a man so badly burnt-the entire right side of his face was horribly scarred. She wondered how it had happened-perhaps it was a war injury.
“Don’t talk much, do you?” the man asked her, with a chuckle.
“No, I don’t-not as a rule.” She said, trying to sound polite.
“May as well introduce myself while I’m about it. Name’s Sandor Clegane-I take care of the grounds of Casterly Rock. You must be Sansa Stark, eh?” He took one hand off the wheel and extended it to her-it was huge.
“Yes, I am.” She tried to smile at him-he was being polite and she should reciprocate like a lady-as she gave him her hand to shake. It disappeared into his paw.
“Sorry for being so gruff and all. Just remembered I had to pick you up from the station when Lord Tyrion reminded me. I was just going to take off for the pub. Just think-there you would have been, waiting hour after hour, for someone to come pick you up from the station, while I sat drinking beer, if that gargoyle hadn’t reminded me about picking up the governess.” He chuckled-evidently the thought of her waiting for transport at the station was very funny.
“Yes, I can well imagine,” she said sweetly-she would not lose her temper with him; she was certain he had a lot to do, and picking her up from the station would have been the last thing on his mind. Large estates like Casterly Rock did not run themselves; and after two world wars, the staff required to run large homes and estates just was not there. She was relieved when, after the war was over, her mother had decided to shift the family from the castle of Winterfell, which they gave to the local agricultural college, to the guest house, which was just large enough to meet their needs. She was glad her mother still had some of the staff-Gage, Poole, Mikken, Farlen, Harwin and Hullen-to run the house; Mama had seen to it the others got to work for the college. She thought father would have approved Mama’s practicality, although Arya disagreed with her, as usual. They had been well compensated, by the college and the Ministry for Coal, which had nationalised the mines the Starks had owned for generations-it helped to pay for the children’s education, as her mother told Brienne, who’d come north during the war as a land girl, and continued to stay with the Starks after the war was long over.
“Sir Kevan said most of the family was living at the Rock,” she said, trying to make conversation.
“Yes, they are-you’ll have your hands full with the children. The old bat couldn’t handle it-she was a Londoner born and bred-she was hired to care for Tommen and Myrcella only. Then Her Grace decided to stay with Papa when His Grace had a bit too much brandy and tumbled off that train in France. Good thing Colonel Selmy was awake and stopped the train-otherwise they’d have had to scrape his body off the rails with shovels.” He laughed at that; she was repelled by the thought of someone dying such a gruesome death.
“Did His Grace always drink a lot?” she asked Clegane.
“Eh? What? Drink? Oh, yes-he was fond of the bottle and the girls. Led Her Grace quite a life, I can tell you that! Never a dull moment with him around. Of course, it got worse after he lost his best friend in the Blitz in ’40-he started drinking as soon as he got out of bed. Her Grace hated that-they used to fight all the time about his drinking and his women. The two young’uns know nothing about it-he’s ten and she’s four years older. Joffrey was away at school in those days. I used to drive her around town-she was doing all sorts of war work, just to keep away from her husband and his family.”
Sansa remembered the war all too well. Father had gone to London when the Blitz was at its height, because Lord Robert Baratheon had need of him. Jon Arryn, who had been guardian to Lord Robert and her father, when they both lost their fathers in the First World War, died suddenly and Father was needed to take his place. He and his secretary, Jory Cassel, and their driver, Wyl, were found dead in the East End after an air raid. She had been a girl of twelve then, her head full of romantic notions-she had come down to earth with a thump when her father died. She and Robb and Jon had to learn to be strong and responsible, for mother and the younger children.
Mother had not given way to her grief; she had done her duty during the war, taking in the refugees from the East End, helping to nurse the wounded and keeping the experimental farm at Winterfell, the pride and glory of the Starks, running during the darkest days of the war, to provide food for the country. Uncle Edmure had been taken prisoner in Europe when his plane was shot down; her mother supported Aunt Roslin through her pregnancy. Grandfather Hoster had died soon after that, of cancer; Mother sat by him, hour after hour. Uncle Brynden, her mother’s uncle, and Uncle Benjen, her father’s younger brother, kept disappearing on mysterious missions into occupied Europe-mother remained stoic through it all.
She’d had no support from her sister, Lysa, the widow of Jon Arryn, who had taken off for Switzerland with her son, her maid and a personal physician, as soon as Jon was buried. She’d chosen to reside in a castle on a mountain and had not kept in touch with her family at all.
“You were saying I’d have my hands full with the children?” she asked the man Clegane-she’d already spoken of this with Sir Kevan; but she had to make conversation till they reached the Rock.
“Oh, yes-there’s Tommen and Myrcella; Willem, Martyn and Janei, Sir Kevan’s children; Cerenna and Myrielle, Sir Stafford’s daughters; and Joy Hill, Captain Gerion Lannister’s daughter. He’s the one missing in action. The old bat-sorry, Miss Eglantine--could not be bothered about the other children. And then she kept on about her mum who was ill. So Her Grace let her go. “
They had arrived at the Rock. Clegane helped her get off the vehicle and walked her to the front door, holding her bags in his hands. The door was opened by a gaunt, grim man, with a pockmarked and beardless face. She could not help noticing his deep-set eyes and his hollow cheeks. He was evidently the butler.
“Here, Payne,” said Clegane to the butler, “show Miss Stark to her room, will you? And take these bags-I’m off to the pub.” The butler merely glanced at him-Sandor dumped the bags at his feet, and left. The butler flicked his fingers-two footmen materialized out of nowhere to pick up the bags as Sansa prepared to follow her guide up the stairs. He silently showed her to her room and merely nodded when she thanked him and the footmen. When she asked what time dinner would be served (for Sir Kevan had informed her that the governess and the children ate with the family), the butler did not speak; he merely glanced at a footman who said, “Eight o’clock, ma’am, sharp.” She thanked them once again.
It was now six forty-five; she had enough time for a quick wash and change. She supposed they would beat a gong to call everyone for dinner. She was glad to see that someone had left a can filled with hot water in her room. She changed into a simple gray evening gown with a modest neckline, brushed out her hair and pinned it up in a simple knot. She wondered what she should do next, when she heard a knock at her door.
She opened it, to find a man four feet tall, with stunted legs, a large head covered with lank platinum-gold hair that fell over his massive forehead, a face with squashed-in features and mismatched eyes, one green and one black, gazing straight at her. He was dressed in the height of fashion, in evening clothes. She would have gaped at him in horror, if he had not stretched out his stubby-fingered hand to her in greeting:
“Good evening, Lady Sansa; I hope Clegane got to the station in time. He did? That’s excellent. I’m Tyrion Lannister--may I walk you down? I thought you might find it a little difficult to find your way around Casterly, since you’ve just arrived. It’s quite an interesting building, architecturally speaking-goes back to the early middle ages...”
He talked on in this pleasant fashion while they made their way to the drawing room, a vast space done up in crimson and gold. It must have been a very warm room in winter, Sansa thought, because of the colours, but it would have been oppressively hot in summer. He offered her a drink-Sansa chose a sherry. She sipped at it delicately, while Lord Tyrion enjoyed a whisky-and-soda and gave her chapter and verse about the history of his home.
They were sitting there, making conversation and enjoying their drinks, when an extremely good-looking but very angry young man barged into the room, almost slamming the door against the wall in his rage. He was not dressed for dinner-it was evident he had been out riding; he reeked of horse-flesh and his clothes were covered in dust. He was tall, blonde, green-eyed and sharp-featured-although Sansa was faintly repelled by his thick lips. He was almost frothing in the mouth as he screamed at them-Sansa could not help but remember a rabid dog she’d seen her father shoot as a child:
“Have you read the letter Stannis sent Pycelle? Have you? That bloody man-I’ll kill the lot of them! Him and his wife and his ugly little daughter! How dare he tell Pycelle that I’m illegitimate! How dare he! How dare he make allegations about my poor mother? Has she not suffered enough? What with Father’s drinking and his whores and his bastards! I never liked him-I hope he dies soon!”
“And good evening to you too, Joffrey!” said his uncle amiably as he got up off the chair where he’d seated himself next to Sansa. “I gather you’ve been to see Creylen-I presume Pycelle sent him a copy of the letter he received? Don’t you think matters of such delicacy should be discussed in your grandfather’s study-and not in the drawing room, just before dinner? By the by, may I introduce you to this charming young lady-Lady Sansa, my nephew, Joffrey Baratheon. I believe your father and his were dear friends.”
“Of course-Father used to speak very affectionately of Lord Robert Baratheon, Your Grace,” she said, looking at Joffrey. “I sincerely condole with you in your grief at the loss of your parent.”
“I don’t need your bloody condolences, you bloody bitch!” Joffrey almost screamed at her in a fury, as he advanced on her, his fists clenched. “If you’ve come to claim your rights as my fiancée,” he snarled at her, his spittle almost flying in her face, “I’ll see you whipped out of this house and this town.”
Sansa stared at him, speechless-she did not know what he was talking about. Just then, a tall, elegant man clad in evening dress strode into the room, grabbed Joffrey by the collar of his shirt, swung him around and slapped his face, hard. Sansa stared at them both, aghast-the man who had just entered the room and struck Joffrey looked like an older version of him, except for his thin lips, which were twisted in a sneer.
“My dear Joffrey,” he said, in a voice as cold as steel, “if you do not learn to control your temper; if you do not learn to behave when introduced to a young lady in a drawing room in your grandfather’s house; if you continue to make baseless assumptions about people when you meet them-you will have a very gory and unpleasant end indeed. Please apologize to Lady Sansa at once,” he continued, in a voice filled with the snap of a command, “leave this room, go and bathe-you stink of the stable-and come back in evening dress in fifteen minutes flat. If you don’t, you can go to bed hungry for all I care. Do you understand?”
“Yes-yes-of course, U-Uncle Jaime-my apologies, Lady Sansa, Uncle Tyrion.” And the young man fled the room like a whipped cur. Sansa could only stare after him, shocked.
Lord Tyrion cleared his throat, “Allow me, Lady Sansa, to introduce my brother Jaime. You must have heard of his career in the air force during the war?”
“Yes-yes, of course. My brother Bran is a great admirer of yours, Squadron-Leader Lannister-he plans to join the RAF when he grows up.”
Jaime turned to her and gave her a weary smile. “Thank you, Lady Sansa-I suppose you must be the young lady Uncle Kevan hired to teach the brats. They’re not a bad lot-but they do enjoy playing jokes on the unwary. Don’t be surprised to find earwigs in your spectacle case or a frog on your pillow.”
“I don’t know about the frog, sir-but I don’t wear spectacles, so I can’t imagine where they’d put the earwigs!”
Jaime was just laughing at this weak joke when in walked the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen-she was in a right royal temper. She was dressed in a black evening gown, simple, elegant and French, which showed off her figure admirably, and she wore a necklace and earrings of magnificent pigeon-blood rubies. Her hair was elaborately plaited and put up to resemble a coronet of gold. She made a beeline for Squadron-Leader Jaime Lannister.
“How could you speak like that to Joffrey? The poor boy’s had the shock of his life because of that letter Stannis sent Pycelle. And then,” she turned blazing green eyes in Sansa’s direction, “to find this creature in the drawing room...what in blazes did Uncle Kevan mean by hiring Ned Stark’s daughter as the governess?”
“A very good question, Cersei,” responded Jaime, amiably. “Perhaps you should have specified your requirements clearly to Uncle Kevan before you asked him to look for a governess for the children. Knowing my uncle, he would have looked for the best-I’m sure Lady Sansa’s qualifications...”
“Oh, I don’t care for that at all!” blazed his sister, who was not mollified by his conciliatory manner. “I told him to find me...”
Sansa did not find out what Lady Cersei had wanted Sir Kevan to find her, because in walked a gentleman at the very sight of whom both Squadron-Leader Lannister and his brother straightened to attention. He was a tall, bald, muscular man in his early fifties, with pale green eyes flecked with gold and silvery blonde side-whiskers framing his face from ear to jaw. He spoke icily to his daughter:
“Cersei, you shame your family with your lack of manners. Lady Sansa, welcome to Casterly Rock.” His manner to her was correct, cold and formal. She responded politely and respectfully-her father may have deplored Lord Tywin’s politics, which had led him to support any political movement, as long as it was anti-communist in nature, but she was his employee. “Thank you, Lord Tywin. Lord Tyrion was telling me all about its history.”
“Yes, it is an old house-but I hear Winterfell is older-goes back to Roman times, so they say.”
“I don’t know, my lord-father always planned to have the lower levels excavated, but the war intervened.”
Lady Cersei turned on her, her red lips smirking, and spoke to her, in a mock-sympathetic tone. “It must have been such a come-down for your family, giving the castle to an agricultural college, of all things, and having to muck about in the guest house.”
“Not really, Your Grace,” Sansa responded, calmly. “The castle was well-suited for use as a college; my family had always supported agricultural experiments, so giving it to the college seemed the right thing to do. And the guest house is just the right size for us-with staff shortages...”
Cersei turned her back to her, giving Sansa a cut direct. However, Tyrion intervened, asking Sansa a question about their library. “I hope it is still intact-I remember visiting Winterfell a long time ago; I was looking for a manuscript I needed to read for my research-I could only find it in your library. Your father was kind enough to let me use it.”
“The library is in good shape-Papa had the books packed up and stored in the crypt when France and Norway fell, before he went to London. We gave the library to Wintertown-they’re setting up a university there; the agricultural college will be affiliated to it.”
“Oh, how philanthropic of you!” Cersei cooed, in a mock-sweet tone of voice, her eyes revealing her rage. “And are you a graduate of this new university, then?”
“No, Your Grace-I went to Somerville, on a scholarship.”
Before Cersei could respond to this statement with yet another barb, three ladies in late middle age walked in, followed by a horde of children and two or three young men. Lord Tywin introduced Sansa to his sister Genna and his sisters-in-law, Darlessa and Dorna. The three ladies were responsible for the running of the house and the estate, while the men worked at building business empires, flying planes or studying and teaching history. Then Tyrion introduced her to the children, who had mobbed him instantly-it seemed that he was their favourite relative. Joffrey was the last to walk in; although he was dressed to the nines in a well-cut evening suit, there was something of the beaten dog about him. The gong for dinner sounded as he entered the room-Sansa took a surreptitious peek at her wristwatch to discover that it was indeed eight o’clock. They walked in to dinner; Sansa noticed she was seated exactly in line with the salt cellar.
She tried to make conversation with the two gentlemen seated either side of her. Captain Daven Lannister had just returned from serving in the army in Germany; he had met Robb there and got along well with him. He was engaged to one of the Frey girls, a relative of her aunt Roslin’s. They had an amusing discussion on the family Frey, which occupied them during the soup and salad course. Lancel Lannister, whom she attempted to talk to during the main course, did not seem ready or willing to respond with anything more than monosyllables. When the meal was over, she left the table with the women and the children, to leave the men to their port and cigars.
As she followed the women and the children out of the room, Lady Cersei turned to face her and said in a voice everyone could hear:
“You may as well begin your duties now, Sansa-please escort the children to their beds. I want to see them asleep in an hour, or else.” Her eyes conveyed the message clearly: or else you’ll be out on the next train...
“But Mother, you promised...” Tommen wailed, and Myrcella joined in. “You promised you’d let us sit up tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday-we don’t have lessons on weekends.” She grabbed Sansa by one hand, and Janei grabbed the other. “I want to sit in the drawing room and have hot chocolate,” she said firmly.
Lady Genna joined in. “For shame, Cersei-the girl’s just arrived barely three hours ago. Let her have an evening of peace. Tomorrow, after breakfast,” she said firmly to Sansa, pushing her in the direction of the drawing room, “the children will sit down with you and tell you what they’ve been studying with Miss Eglantine. For now, just get to know them better.”
Sansa felt a little awkward at seeing Lady Cersei so easily outmanoeuvred by her aunt and the children-but it was obvious the children did not want to go to bed so early. She sat down with them and listened to their conversations, giving her opinion when asked for it. Of course, as Sir Kevan had warned her, they began by telling her of the various ghosts that haunted Casterly Rock-Lady Joanna being the most prominent.
“I’ve seen her,” Myrcella said in an authoritative but low voice-it was evident she did not want to be overheard by her mother.
“Where?” Janei asked, all agog.
“You know her rooms are always kept locked? Only Grandfather, Mother and Uncle Jaime are allowed inside? Well, when I was climbing Lion’s Leap-it’s that hill just opposite the Rock, Lady Sansa-I saw her. She was in a white nightgown drenched in blood and she stood at the window, looking out.”
Payne walked in just then, leading a bevy of footmen who first carried the coffee tray to Lady Cersei and her aunts and then a tray with hot chocolate milk for the children. She noticed he gave her a mug of hot chocolate as well-she had no objection, since she wanted a good night’s sleep. The gentlemen walked in and joined the ladies.
Sansa left with the children, after wishing everyone a good night. She had the children tucked into bed-Tommen shared a room with Willem and Martyn Lannister, who were twins, but not identical; Willem had sandy hair, whereas Martyn’s hair veered towards gold. The girls shared a common room-they were lying, whispering in bed, when Sansa came to tuck them in. She put off the lights after shushing them to sleep and went to her own room, which was not too far from theirs’-they were located in the nursery wing, as Tyrion had informed her earlier in the evening.
She had just got into bed and put her head on the pillow when she felt something rustle, between the pillow and its case. It seemed that someone had left a paper there. She switched on the bedside lamp, put her hand into the pillow and pulled out the paper. It was a letter, apparently addressed to her mother, bearing Robert Baratheon’s signature. Sansa opened it, to read:
My dear Catelyn,
It has been many years since we met last in 1940. Sometimes, I think I did the wrong thing-if only I had not sent for Ned to come to London, to help when Jon died, he might yet be alive. But I needed him then, as I always needed him and Jon. The two of them gave me the courage to bear the loss of my parents-I hope I gave Ned the strength to face his losses when he lost his father and Brandon. And then there was the loss of Lyanna, which wounded us both. I should have been there for you and the children, as Ned was there for me when I needed him. I can never forgive myself for that, war or no war.
There is another reason why I’m writing this letter-you must have guessed that already; you must suspect me of an ulterior motive (in any case) in getting in touch with you almost nine years after his death. Well, there are one or two. I need answers to a few questions-perhaps Ned wrote to you or called you before he died. If he did so, please tell me:
- Why was he visiting the most notorious brothel in the East End accompanied by his secretary? I know it was a notorious brothel because I was a frequent visitor to it six months before he went there.
- What did he want to get fixed at Tobho Mott’s motor parts and automobile repair shop? Again, I know he went there-I had Colonel Selmy check up on his movements.
- Why was he questioning Pycelle about Jon’s stomach ailment? Did he suspect foul play?
- Why has your sister married Petyr Baelish? I thought he was carrying a torch for you-he fought a duel with Brandon because he wanted to marry you.
If you do have the answers to these questions, please write to me at the Hotel __________ in Paris-I shall be visiting briefly after inspecting our Mediterranean fleet.
Yours,
Robert Baratheon
The letter was dated a week before his death-he wrote it before he left for France.
Sansa did not know what to believe-it was evident that Robert Baratheon suspected something about her father’s death; else he would not be asking all these questions or writing to her mother so many years after the event. She wondered if she should find an excuse to go to Lannisport and post this letter, with a covering note, to Mama. Or should she burn it instead? Catelyn, she thought, had suffered enough when Eddard died in that air raid-why should she open those wounds that had taken nine years to heal? She wondered how Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Jon would react-they would all want vengeance against those who had done their father to death. She did not want to post the letter-not until she was certain it was written by Robert Baratheon. Of course, she could ask her mother if he had written to her after Lord Eddard’s death-both Uncle Brynden and Uncle Benjen knew enough cops to find a handwriting expert who could compare the two notes to see if this was Robert Baratheon’s handwriting, and not a forgery calculated to sow distrust and suspicion in the minds of its readers.
She was pondering what action to take when she heard the phone in the nursery wing ring loudly. She looked at the time-it was almost eleven. She threw on a dressing gown-she wanted to make sure the children were not awakened by the sound. It rang again and again-it had stopped ringing when she reached it, somewhat out of breath, and picked it up.
Two men were talking on the phone. She recognized one of the voices-it was Jaime Lannister. He was talking angrily to the man at the other end of the line, who kept trying to interrupt him.
“Listen, Petyr, what makes you think the girl knows something? Joffrey threw that bit about Robert planning an engagement between the two of them-she hadn’t heard of it at all. Perhaps Ned did not tell his wife everything he discussed with his best friend-I’m sure he never told her who Jon Snow’s mother was.”
Sansa listened breathlessly-she knew she was eavesdropping, and eavesdroppers heard nothing but evil of themselves. But it was evident these men knew how and why her father had died-she would not put the phone down, propriety be damned.
“My dear Jaime,” the man at the other end of the line spoke, in a patient tone of voice, the sort of voice used with idiots. “I think I told you, did I not, that my hysterical little Lysa wrote to her sister-she sent her a gift of a pair of German binoculars with a note in code. I told you, did I not, that the girls used to amuse themselves making up secret languages and codes? They trusted me-I was Lysa’s age and not such a baby as Edmure. I know she wrote to her sister, accusing your family of murdering the late, great Jon Arryn. She confessed to me, the naughty girl-she said she did it to cover up her own crime. I’m certain that when Ned went to London, to aid Robert in the war effort after Jon’s death, he planned to look into Jon’s murder as well. I told you, did I not, that he was following the same trails and clues as Jon was-Stannis’ trails and clues-and he would come to the same conclusions as Jon had. I warned you that you and your sister, and your children, were in danger, unless you got rid of Ned. Now, find a way to get rid of the girl.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Petyr-if the girl disappears for no good reason, won’t her family come looking? She’s been hired as a governess by my uncle-my father and brother approve of her, as do the aunts and cousins. They don’t know anything, as yet, about us-Cersei and me. If anything happens to the girl, they will get to the bottom of it. Tyrion and my father and Uncle Kevan-they’re all relentless in their own way, and very, very unforgiving. Father, for one, questioned me even more sternly than a Scotland Yard detective when Ned and his men died. He heard I’d been in the area-did you find a way to get word to him? You better not have-I know a few things about you that would put you and keep you behind bars, here or in Switzerland. I think we should let sleeping dogs lie-the girl knows nothing. I don’t know how much Catelyn knows or suspects-but she never got the letter Robert wrote her. He gave it to Lancel to post-and Lancel read the letter and told Cersei about it. He said he destroyed it-why would he lie? He idolizes Cersei-slobbers over her, if you ask me-but he has been useful. And as for Police Commissioner Slynt-he should be happy with Harrenhal-I nearly went bust paying for it. I have no intention of talking to my father to talk to someone to get him a safe seat in the House of Commons. Making him an MP seems to be too high a price to pay-I might just turn virtuous and confess all my crimes at one go.”
Petyr evidently said something in disagreement, after which Jaime responded with:
“Listen, Petyr, you seem to be a really clever chap-you can travel under the radar and gain everyone’s confidence so easily. Why not find a way to get rid of Stannis for us-and I’ll keep quiet about your affair with Lysa? He’s writing all those insulting letters about us-someone is sure to ask questions-no smoke without fire-that sort of thing. You were bloody smart in telling us how to get rid of Ned and his secretary and driver-I don’t think I ever felt more grateful for an air raid in the East End. The bombs did a good job of hiding the bullet holes. You get rid of Stannis-and I’ll forget that Pycelle told me Jon Arryn was suffering from arsenic poisoning when he examined him. Pycelle, unlike that young fool Colemon, knows his poisons. Lysa must have been giving it to him, right? I’m glad I never agreed to wed her-it would have been me and not Jon Arryn who would have been in his grave.”
When Petyr protested loudly, Jaime responded with, “Listen, you bastard, I got rid of Jon’s valet for you-the one who was blackmailing you and Lysa with your affair and the poisoning. I got Gregor to get rid of him for you during basic training. You get rid of Stannis-and no, I will not have the girl hurt. Not by Cersei or Joffrey. She knows nothing; she’s an innocent for all her university education. And for God’s sake,” he snapped, when Petyr continued to squawk, “don’t call me at this unearthly hour and not at this number-do you realise this is the extension number? Anyone in the house can pick it up and listen in. What if Joffrey or my father were to find out what we’d done? We’d be toast, do you realise that? No; we do what I told you-I call you from the bar in the Lannisport hotel when I need to speak to you. You leave a message asking to speak to me with the bartender or with Sandor Clegane, no one else. Don’t call the house, Petyr-or I’ll land up in Switzerland, shoot your wife and son and make it look like you did it. Good night.”
Sansa heard the phone slam down simultaneously at both ends. She put the receiver down, her hand shaking. She did not think she would ever forget the conversation that she had overheard. No, she did not plan to leave-nor did she plan to ask for leave so soon after her arrival here. She knew she would get a weekend to herself once in two weeks-Sir Kevan had promised her that. Very well then; the Saturday after next, she would go to Lannisport, find a quiet place-the parlour of the local inn or the reading room of the local library-and write to her mother, enclosing Robert Baratheon’s letter in her note. Her family-the Tullys and the Starks-might have lost a lot in the war, but they would find the means to get justice. She hoped and prayed that Stannis Baratheon would stay alive till then. She would be the best governess ever, till next Saturday-she would make certain they had no complaints about her conduct. She looked into the children’s rooms, to find them sleeping soundly-she then made her way back to her own bed, only to stare at the ceiling hour after hour, unable to sleep.