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jadeddivaHouse: Tyrell
First time poster? No
Subject and/or brief description: “When the dragons come, as they must, Sansa is ready for them.” Sansa Stark, and life after the war.
Rating: M
Word Count: 4853
# of scenes: 5
When Tyrion tells Sansa that he has enjoyed her company, it is the truth. There is a kindness in her eyes when she looks at him that he hasn’t seen before, though he knows she’s more than capable of it, sweet as she is. Even though Sansa is no more talkative than she was in the early days of her marriage, she is no longer as deferential, and there are times when they are actually able to have a conversation. Those moments do not last long, for there is much he needs to do and Sansa keeps to herself, but he is grateful for genuine conversation. It has been too long since he has had someone congenial to talk to.
The Sansa Stark he found in the Vale is not the one that left King’s Landing. She’s thinner and older and more beautiful - a woman, not a scared little girl. There is much of her mother in her look, but no matter how great a beauty Catelyn Tully was, Sansa will far surpass her. There is much of her father in her demeanor - her quietness, her coolness - and in those moments she is less of a maiden fair than a northern ice queen. He suspects this is less of the product of her heritage and more the product of the last few years of her upbringing: Cersei taught her to be wary, Littlefinger taught her to be coy and calculating, and Sansa has taken their lessons to heart.
Only the strong survive in the game of thrones, and Sansa Stark may outlast them all.
They stop at yet another minor lord’s manor, and he does his requisite song-and-dance for the Queen. When he retires, hours after discussing matters of state and bending the knee, Sansa is waiting in his solar.
“When we arrive in King’s Landing,” she asks, “what will become of me?”
Her voice is once again the scared little girl who he married all those years ago, and Tyrion sighs.
“I had assumed you would stay there for some time before returning north. Surely you wish to return to Winterfell?”
Sansa laughs - a bitter laugh, not the laugh of a child. “My home is gone, and all that ties me to that place is a brother I barely recognize and a name that is not even mine anymore.” She looks at Tyrion, and she seems so very tired. “Am I bad sister?” she whispers.
Of course Sansa would worry about duty to her family (it’s the Tully in her). “You’ve spent the last three years raising one fragile young boy,” Tyrion tells her. “I can hardly blame you for not desiring to raise a miniature wildling.”
“It’s just…he’s all I have. A Stark must be in Winterfell. But I could be there, and be haunted by all that I lost. Rickon won’t remember it, in time. He wasn’t old enough. But I will always remember.” Sansa looks off towards the fire, her thoughts leagues beyond the walls of this room.
The travesties wrought upon House Stark are, to Tyrion, the greatest travesties of this war. Ned Stark was an honorable man, and his family deserved better than what became of them.
“And King’s Landing will be any better?” Tyrion asks. “The last time you were there--
“People come and go. The court will change. And there may be familiar faces who were kind to me.”
“People come and go, like you said.” Tyrion sighs. “But the wretchedness will remain. King’s Landing will always reek with the scum of humanity, those clamoring to be heard by the Queen.” Tyrion sighs again, wipes his hand across his brow. “It is a horrible place, but even flowers grow in the muck.”
“I don’t much like that comparison,” Sansa tells him, pulling her knees up to her chest. She looks the most relaxed she ever has in his presence, and it considers it a small victory that he trusts her.
“Not you, dear girl,” Tyrion says. “Daenerys Targaryen will make a fine queen, because she knows how to play the game of thrones. What she doesn’t know is how to survive in a court in Westeros. She’s been surrounded by Dothraki and men for too long that being surrounded by women might be difficult. If you go to King’s Landing, you could help her. You know how to navigate these situations. Perhaps you would be an ideal companion for her.”
“She is a Dragon,” Sansa says, like it is all that she needs to say.
“And the women of King’s Landing are vipers. Last I checked , wolves could kill snakes quite easily.”
A small smile cracks Sansa’s face. “Let us hope that is not an exaggeration, my lord.”
Tyrion laughs. “Of course.”
He has made his decisions months ago, on his way back to Westeros, that if he ever found her, he would free Sansa from their bonds of marriage. He knows that her opinion of him will never change, that she would stay with him out of loyalty, but he also knows she has been bound to one man or another for far too long - Joffrey, himself, Baelish and young Robert Arryn. Tyrion wonders how much more splendid Sansa could become if she was set free.
“When we reach King’s Landing,” he tells her, “I will petition to end this marriage.”
Sansa’s smile fades. “On what grounds?”
“Oh, the numerous whores I seem to employ,” Tyrion says, pretending to be more jovial than he feels.
Sansa nods, processing the information. Her silence makes him worry.
“Unless, of course, you don’t want anyone to assume that we - “
“I don’t mind, Tyrion,” she says, calling him by his name. She rarely does. “Thank you, for all the kindnesses that you have given me.”
“You have a beautiful spirit, Sansa,” Tyrion points out, looking away. “Kindness should always been given to you - it shouldn’t be something you feel you must earn.”
Sansa retires soon after, leaving Tyrion to contemplate his situation. He would gladly keep Sansa by his side as his wife, but he knows she needs more, and the harsh realities of her early rejection still haunt him. This new arrangement might work better.
Oh, how time has tempered this lion, he thinks. He’s fond the girl, but not fond enough to keep her trapped (though he might have, years ago...)
As it turns out, Tyrion is finding that he has much kindness in him when given the opportunity.
Sansa has never been more beautiful than when she is at court. He hopes that she will blossom here, with this new ruler in a vastly different court, and that it will not be a time of bad memories but rather of new growth.
He hopes.
He writes his petition for divorce to the High Septon that night.
…
As they near King’s Landing, they are stopped by a band of outlaws. When it becomes obvious that they will not hurt the Hand of the Queen, Sansa takes a breath and lowers her hood. It is warm in the sun, though snow still rests on the grass as they go South. Tiny rivers of water stream down the trees as the ice melts, but spring is still far off.
Tyrion addresses the men, and they request that he speak to their leader.
“Stay here,” he tells Sansa. The horses are restless, and she sways on her agitated mount.
It is a brief conference.
“My dear Sansa,” Tyrion says, riding back to her. Alongside him walks a young man with black hair. “There is a member of this company, a woman who claims to remember your lady mother when she was young. She will not approach you, as the war has disfigured her, but she would ask you questions.” He gestures to the young man. “If you allow it, this man will be her voice.”
Sansa glanced over to the party beneath the trees, where a shrouded figure shaped like a woman sat on a horse with the others. “She knew Catelyn Stark?”
“Her mother worked at Riverrun - she practically grew up with your mother,” Tyrion says.
“She said you resemble her greatly,” the young man adds.
Sansa glances at Tyrion, who nods. “I will answer your questions.” She looks at the shadowed shape of the woman, not the young man, as she talks. There is a nagging feeling in the back of her head, but she can’t interpret just what the feeling is, or what it means.
“The first is about your family - she wishes to know if you have knowledge of your brothers and sister.”
Sansa takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar chill that extends from her heart through her veins. “My sister, I have no word of. My brother Rickon sits in the high hall at Winterfell. My brother Bran was lost north of the Wall. My last brother is not my brother, but the son of Lyanna Stark. He is with the band of soldiers and Free Folk just south of the Wall.”
Tyrion broke the news of what happened with the Wall to her when they first met, and she cannot rectify that the stories of her childhood are real. It is easier most days to know that Jon is her cousin than to accept that giants walk this land.
Sansa glances up at the woman. There is no response from the figure.
“My lady wishes to know where you have been during the war.”
“I was hidden in the Vale by Lord Petyr Baelish. I have been with my young cousin, Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale and the Eyrie. My aunt, Lysa Arryn, is no longer with us.”
“A final question, good lady. Are you well?”
Sansa is taken aback by the question. “As well enough, I suppose, for I do have my health and my wits, and a brother in the North.”
“Thank you,” the young man says with a smile. He returns to his party in the trees.
Their party starts once again. As they leave, a horrible, otherworldly cry rises behind them. Sansa’s skin crawls with the keening which must be coming from the shadowed woman.
“We should make King’s Landing in a day,” Tyrion tells her, riding alongside her. But for all her questions, he will not say more about the woman, or her companions, or the reason for her wounded cries.
...
Daenerys Targaryen is nothing that Sansa expected, but she is not sure she knew what to expect at all.
The stories she had heard in the Vale and along the road spoke of a woman, a warrior, with dark eyes and white hair - Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt. She was said to be the most beautiful of all, this woman who claimed the throne and brought peace on the back of her dragons.
From what she has learned on their voyage south from Winterfell, all the lords and ladies of the land are eager to swear fealty to the one who has saved them. It is the hope of many that there will not be a war like that of the Five Kings again, for there is also another heir to the throne - Rhaegar’s son, Aegon, once lost but now returned to claim his right.
And another, farther north, reluctant to claim his heritage.
Daenerys is smaller than Sansa, though older than her, and very beautiful. She dresses in pale silks from the Summer Lands and wears her hair down, a pale circlet around her head. She is not officially Queen - not until the coronation, not yet, but she is the undisputed ruler of this land.
Beside her stands a knight whom Sansa recognizes. “Ser Barristan!” she exclaims as soon as she sees him, and his presence here, with the Queen, puts her mind at ease. He was always fair and kind to her - the most honorable knight she has known.
“Lady Sansa,” he says, bowing. Beside him, the Queen smiles.
“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Sansa of Winterfell,” the Queen says. There is a slight accent to her words, one that speaks of her time in exile.
Sansa does her courtesies, dipping deep towards the floor. “And you as well, your Grace.”
Next to the Queen is another woman, with dark skin and hair - a Dornishwoman, whom Tyrion introduces as Nymeria Sand, the daughter of Oberyn Martell. “A true viper, after her father,” he tells Sansa, and Nymeria smiles at the words.
There is another man who hangs back, but he makes his courtesies to Sansa as well.
“Ser Jorah Mormont, of Bear Island,” he tells her. He meets her eyes, and then looks away.
Sansa remembers, somewhere in her distant memory, something about a Mormont who was exiled by her father, and she wonders if this is the same man. She smiles, though he is not looking at her.
”My nephew is not here,” the Queen tells her. “He has decided that he wants to learn how to hawk, since he was never given the opportunity before.” The queen purses her lips. “I am worried I will be far too indulging of his whims.”
The Queen turns, and they follow her. Gone are all the Baratheon stags and the general feeling of malaise that saturated the hall during Joffrey’s reign. Instead, there are scarlet Targaryen dragons on banners that, for some reason, make the room feel bigger. Or maybe it’s the lack of weary citizens and a corrupt Kingsguard. Ser Barristan wears the white, but there are no other guards save for Dothraki, loyal enough to their khaleesi to cross the Narrow Sea.
“I have heard much about you, Lady Stark,” the Queen says as they walk. “My Hand thinks highly of you and your House. My advisors also tell me of your family, and their honorable nature. I am so terribly sorry for what has happened to your family. I understand all too well what it is like to be one of the few left of a House.”
Sansa does not know what to say - her normal platitudes fail her in the wake of such kindness - and she does not have to say much. At that moment, Aegon Targaryen arrives home from his excursion.
Aegon is tall and thin, with the pale hair of his father and the olive skin of his mother. He strikes a commanding picture, though his eyes immediately fall on Sansa. She dips down to the floor once more.
“Lady Sansa, of House Stark,” Tyrion introduces.
“It is an honor, Your Grace,” Sansa intones before rising. There is little emotion on the young prince’s face, though his jaw seems tight as he looks at her.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sansa,” Prince Aegon says. He turns his attention away from her, and Sansa feels herself relax.
With a smile, they are dismissed from the Queen’s presence.
Her rooms are adjacent to Tyrion’s, and they share a small sitting room and an even smaller dining room. She does not mind this, despite the apparent divorce proceedings, because she has been sleeping uneasily, and knowing that the only person left in King’s Landing that once protected her is close does much to ease her weary heart.
“How does King’s Landing suit you, Sansa?” Tyrion asks that night, as they eat in their small dining room.
Sansa thinks for a moment before answering. “It’s different, and in a good way,” she says. “I will admit that many of my fears were assuaged when I saw Ser Barristan.”
“A loyal knight of the Kingsguard if there ever was one,” Tyrion agrees, “and an honorable man. He lends much to Her Grace’s credibility.”
“She seems lovely,” Sansa says, “and I feel that she knows how to rule.”
Tyrion laughs as he reaches for his cup. “From what I have seen in the East, Sansa, you are right about that. I hope we have fewer problems with this ruler than we did the last several.”
…
Sansa knows her way around the grounds, and she often wanders in the gardens. Winter has been kinder here than at Winterfell, and while she misses the snow and ice of her home in the North, she finds that winter is no less beautiful here.
There has been a flurry of activity in recent days, including fittings for new dresses. She has grown since she’s been in the Vale, and when Tyrion suggested new clothing, she hesitated briefly before she agreed.
“I will repay you,” she says uneasily, because she doesn’t know how she will do it. Winterfell is in shambles, and she has never had any money of her own. All her needs have always been taken care of , and suddenly her decision to stay here seems fraught with problems.
“Sansa,” Tyrion tells her, “all of the gold in Casterly Rock is mine, and I will give you enough to ensure that you will never want for anything.”
All of the gold in Casterly Rock became Tyrion’s at the end of the war. Most of it has been forfeited to the crown to pay for the Lannister crimes, but the amount that remains, Sansa has heard, is more than enough to allow Tyrion to live comfortably.
The dissolution of their marriage comes through the day after they arrive in King’s Landing, and Sansa is surprised to find the Queen’s signature as well as the High Septon’s.
“But I am no longer yours to worry about,” Sansa presses, feeling color rise in her cheeks.
“Sansa, you may not be my wife but I will do my best to care for you,” Tyrion says. “To speak plainly, you have no father and no older brother, and someone needs to make sure that your next marriage contract is taken care of accordingly. I am the right age to be an older brother to you, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Sansa nods, and allows Tyrion to order dresses for her.
She tries very hard not to remember their brief marriage and their disastrous bedding, though it is impossible to not fall back into the rhythms of her former life while she’s here. She goes to the hall during the day, to hear the petitioners, and she dines with the Queen or Tyrion whenever requested. She does not go to the Godswood, or the Sept of Baelor, however.
Like the North, the gardens here are quiet and peaceful, the only sound the steady trickle of water that flows from the melting snow and ice. The train of her dress is damp, but Sansa cannot bring herself to leave this peaceful place.
It is here that Prince Aegon finds her.
“I am sorry to bother you, my lady,” he says, standing back. She is near a frozen fountain, watching the melt water carve paths on the ice.
“It is no bother, Your Grace,” she says, because it is not. “These are your gardens.”
The Prince laughs. “So they are, I am told..” He draws closer, and she feels a flutter - of fear? - in her stomach. She thinks it is his blond hair, which in this light shines brighter and makes her think of Joffrey.
She’s done a very good job of not thinking of him these days.
“Do you look like her?” the prince asks suddenly. Sansa immediately know of whom he speaks.
“No. My - Jon, he resembles the Starks. I look like my mother, and she was a Tully.”
Prince Aegon nods. “I’m sorry for asking, Lady Stark. There is little I know about my father except what I was told by my advisors and my foster-father, and there’s much I wish to understand.”
Sansa remains quiet. She knows nothing save stories and hushed whispers, because the North remembers and what they remember, she thinks, is quite possibly very different from what happened.
“I do not know much, Your Grace - I was born after the war,” she says.
Prince Aegon nods. “Of course, Lady Sansa. I just wondered - if your aunt looked like you, I can see why my father stole her away.”
The prince leaves Sansa in a state of surprise and shock, and she stays by the fountain for an unreasonably long period of time, until her fingertips grow cold and her nose feels like ice.
She studies herself in the mirror carefully that night. She does not see much except her own face when she looks, though she knows her hair is quite lovely.
She is quiet at dinner until Tyrion finally asks what troubles her so.
“Prince Aegon thinks I’m beautiful,” she says, reaching for her cup.
“And you do not think such about yourself?” Tyrion asks skeptically.
“I have not thought much about it, to be honest,” Sansa admits. “I have been trying so hard to stay hidden that I have not thought about what I look like. A base-born girl cannot be vain.”
Tyrion takes a drink from his cup, and places it back on the table. “You are very beautiful, Sansa Stark, and you must be careful. Your beauty can be a gift, or a curse, or a weapon, but you should never let others take advantage of you because of it.” Tyrion pauses. “Nor should you take advantage of others.”
Tyrion’s words linger in Sansa’s ears late into the night, and when she wakes up to study her face in the mirror again. There is a prettiness to her features that reminds her so much of her mother, and she wonders if people have taken advantage of her because of this. She knows, for a fact, that Littlefinger tried.
But has she taken advantage of others?
In the darkest nights when she can’t sleep, she thinks of poor, dear, dead Harry who loved her so fiercely (he loved Alayne, she tells herself, not Sansa, because he never knew her to be anyone else). She knows he thought she was pretty - pretty enough to bed, at least - and if her hand slips between her thighs when she thinks about him and their time together, she no longer feels any sense of shame for that. She is nearly eighteen and she has lain with a man before. There are things that she wants, now, things that she needed that made her return to Harry beyond the first time.
Harry’s willingness makes her wonder if it would be possible, once more...
Perhaps that is what Tyrion meant about taking advantage of men with her beauty.
It’s certainly something to think about.
...
The next day, Jon arrives. He brings with him Ghost and a crannogman, Howland Reed, whom Sansa heard her father speak of with great admiration. They have a private audience with the Queen for some time.
Sansa is summoned to the Queen’s chambers at midday, and on her way she passes the crannogman, who stops her.
“I knew your lord father,” he tells her, and she smiles.
“He spoke fondly of you,” she says, and it is his turn to smile.
“You have his strength,” Howland Reed tells her, “but you have your aunt’s eyes. She was fearless, as are you.”
Sansa is still taken aback when she enters the Queens chambers. The tension in the room is thick, though Ghost cuts through it as he leaves his place beside Jon and comes to her, nudging her hand so that she may pet him.
“The Starks and their direwolves,” the Queen says with a small smile. “I have heard much of this. I have not seen you with your wolf, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa continues to pet Ghost, who leans into her as she scratches behind his ears. He’s so much bigger than Lady ever was. “No, your Grace - she died many years ago.” The feel of Ghost’s fur under her fingertips makes her miss Lady more than ever.
“I am sorry,” the Queen says.
Jon looks around awkwardly from the corner of the room. His mouth, which was always downturned, looks even more so now, and there is a sadness that lingers in his eyes. Jon was never a happy child, and Sansa wonders what the life of a bastard is truly like.
“Hello,” she says to Jon, who is clearly uneasy with all this attention placed on him. Jon nods stiffly in response.
The Queen speaks. “Howland Reed has just confirmed the story of Jon’s birth to Lyanna Stark, as he was there with your father when he found both Lyanna and her child,” she says. “I have acknowledged him as my nephew, son of Rhaegar Targaryen.” She stops, as if looking to Jon for approval. He nods, and looks away, walking towards the window.
“Jon has already refused to be considered a Targaryen,” the Queen continues, “and has refused my offer to be Aegon’s successor. Instead, I have another proposal: I will raise Jon to Lord Stark, and he will reign as Lord Protector of the North until your brother, Rickon, comes of age.” The Queen pauses. “You will still be Lady Stark of Winterfell until you choose to marry again.”
Sansa’s eyes fall to Jon, whose face has turned to gaze out of the window. “Jon will do well with Rickon,” she says, unsure of what else to say. What she wants to ask is what will happen to her.
The Queen has answers for everything.
“I do not intend to follow the behaviors of my predecessors. I intend to appoint a small council that will reflect all of Westeros. I would have you stay here, Lady Sansa, in King’s Landing, and serve me.”
Sansa is startled. “My lady, you cannot possibly mean that I should serve on the small council - I am but a girl - “
“But you are a Stark,” the Queen says. “There must be a Stark in Winterfell, and I would see a Stark in the small council.”
“There must be others - “
“There will never be anyone better to represent the values of the North,” the Queen says firmly.
“I am but a girl, I have no - “
“The stories from the Vale paint a picture of a strong, capable woman,” the Queen insists. “The lords there know who kept them from war, and it is not Robert Arryn.”
Ghost presses into Sansa, insistent that she continue to pet him now that her fingers have stilled.
“I will leave the two of you. You have much to discuss.”
When the door is finally shut behind the Queen - his aunt - Jon turns from the window. The way that he holds himself - the way that it must be for him, now, to learn that he has never been Ned Stark’s bastard but the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the son of Lyanna Stark, the bastard son of a prince - makes Sansa want to cry.
She moves towards him quickly and wraps her arms around him. She has never hugged Jon before, and he was closer to Arya, but save for Rickon, he is the only family that she has left.
Jon pulls her closer - he is barely taller than her, she is so tall - and she can feel the silent sobs that rack his body. She doesn’t even know how to begin to comfort him, so she says nothing instead of sweet platitudes.
“I’m sorry,” he says after some time, wiping the tears from his face. Ghost is at his side now, a steady reassuring figure, and Sansa misses Lady all the more now.
“How are you feeling?” she asks. Jon laughs, weakly, and shrugs his shoulders.
“I will not lie to you, Sansa - the only thing I ever wanted for so long was to be a Stark - not a Snow, not some bastard. And now I have the name- but at what cost?”
“There is no cost that you must pay,” Sansa tells him. “You are a Stark, and always have been. You were raised by my father and just because you are not his son doesn’t mean you were any less important to him. We all know how dearly he loved your mother.”
Jon nods, reaching down to pet Ghost. “I know, and...this arrangement that the Queen suggests...Sansa, do you want to stay here?”
“Winterfell is no longer my home,” she says. “I feel no affection for it. The North is not my land any longer. I think I might like it at court - it is a gentler court than previous, and I am treated well here.”
Jon looks uncomfortable. “And my place at Winterfell?”
Sansa sighs. “You have always been a Stark, Jon. This is no different.”
“You will always be welcome to come back to Winterfell - it is your home as well.”
Sansa smiles. “Thank you.”
They all eat in the hall that night - the Queen, the Prince, Jon, and the other small council members like Nymeria Sand, who looks at Jon like he is the meal instead of the food on her plate. The brothers are at first wary of each other, but they are able to engage in conversation about dogs and swords and the Queen smiles over her cup at them as they talk in low tones to each other.