Sansa Stark
Broken. Lost. Hollow. Of heart shattered to dust. That was how Aegon looked to Sansa, as the corpse of Lord Connington left for the Great Sept of Baelor, escorted by a dozen of Silent Sisters. Sent, to await the outcome of the looming battle as they all must, then endure the war until the castle of Griffin's Roost returned to the King’s banner, for journey to south, to his ancestral home. Like her father's bones did, though by now the remains of Lord Eddard Stark might lie under the ruins of Winterfell, in the chill of the crypts. She had always feared them, yet, at this very moment she would give anything to just walk through the ancient corridors, among the ghosts of Stark kings. By the grace of the old gods, perhaps I still may.
Far away, war horns sounded. The dragon's own or the stag's, Sansa had no ear for matters of war. From the Rookery's tower at dawn, she strained her eyes to glimpse Stannis's horsemen across the river's mouth, but saw naught. Haldon assured her that the foe was hidden in the Kingswood by the Kingsroad, biding their time for their king's ships to land. The Halfmaester spoke his words with a queer glee, as if she would be vexed if the enemy was not there. Rumours said that skirmishes had already been fought in the woods, with Black Balaq's bowmen harrying the provisions coming from Storm's End. Darker voices claimed that Lord Tarly had already joined his strength with Ser Guyard Morrigen, forging a fearsome host of more than thirty thousand swords waiting beyond the river.
The cortege with the late Hand's remains was guarded by two scores of Golden Company knights and captains, led by Lymond Pease and the Peake brothers: Laswell, the grizzled man, yet still as kind as her father had been, and the much younger Pykewood, a comely knight Jeyne had a fancy for.
Aegon lingered in the yard, his milk-pale Targaryen face, lost its beauty, turning to a hollow shell of sorrow and injury. He looks almost ill, Sansa noted. The ladies of the court wept as the procession departed, but the king's eyes stayed dry, too careworn to shed a tear. Sansa knew he was not a stranger to emotion, but the last few days had drained him.
She followed him as he made his way back to the inner keep, avoiding the throng of the outer bailey. The castle was bristling with steel, with armored men at every turn, and a thousand more upon the walls, preparing for Stannis's assault. Upstream, the royal fleet was ready to bar Stannis, whether he came by sea or by the river. She entered the Great Hall behind Aegon and climbed the long spiral of the serpentine steps to the throne room. Two Kingsguard flanked the king: Rymen Rykker, a mere boy, younger than her, whom men now called 'Shieldless Rymen,' for he had cast away his shield in the trial, and fought with two swords, showing great skill; and Daemon Sand, a Dornishman who would sometimes give Sansa thinly veiled lustful glances. Both white brothers noticed her, but said naught, obediently following their liege.
Only Aegon entered the throne room; the Kingsguard remained outside, at the massive oaken door that was left ajar. They are leaving the way for me, she realized, hastening her pace. Ser Daemon gave her a nod as she passed through the door, and the loud thump of oak left Aegon and Sansa alone in the vast hall, half a world apart.
He turned his head when her soft steps emerged from a concealment of the noise the closing door made. Every step she made echoed in the dim walls of the great chamber as Aegon waited for her motionless, resembling a statue.
"I thought, perhaps, you needed me," she whispered gently. Her heart sank seeing his face up close, marred by bruised islands blemishing his fairness, connected by bridges of half-healed cuts. The silence that followed wounded her even more as he just stood there, soaked in heavy drops of unseen rain.
"I should have wed you," Aegon sighed, breaking free from the chains of his petsonal hell-dungeon. After the trial by combat, he had hardly taken off his armor, and now he must don it again to defend the city. But more than that, the shield before his heart was always raised.
"Words of such are not wise, Your Grace," she breathed, fearful for him. "The Red Keep, I know, the walls have ears. My father scorned that peril and paid dearly. And now..." Aegon lifted an eyebrow, his puzzlement barely showing on his weary face.
"...and now Margaery is with a child, so you fear someone might slay me. Trust me, my Sansa, if she or anyone else plots that deed, they will choose to wait for me to fill her womb with spare." He dropped his eyes to the floor, ashamed by his own crude tongue. Sansa's heart fluttered; she loved this side of him—gentle soul, a tender need to protect her, even from profanities. Nothing like Joffrey. With Joffrey, it was always only about Joffrey.
Unwilling to show any regret and to fan the flames of his resentment, she drew nearer, almost nose to nose with him. "If you had wed me, Lord Tyrell might have stayed in his great castle, and King's Landing would still be in Lannister hands." The twist of fate gnawed at her heart, but other paths lay in a dark abyss that would devour both her dragon and her kin in one fell swoop. So, speaking truly, she continued, "Now, King's Landing is not in a fright, for the might of Dorne is coming, as are the lords of the Reach, and the city walls are crowded with spears."
Though she knew Aegon was privy to it all, mayhaps even more, she longed to bring some light to his face. Lord Connington was like a father to him, a bond closer than any Sansa had ever shared with her own sire. The river cannot flow backwards, and the sun set for all she might have said to her father now.
"The battle scares me not," he said with a faint smile, reaching out a hand. "Dance with me... my lady, as you did many moons ago in the halls of Maidenpool." Taken aback for a moment, she did not answer forthwith; then took the offered hand, laying her other arm on the back of his black doublet.
Movements were slow this time, unlike the quickness of the first dance they shared together. Relishing every move, Aegon guided her as if playing an easy melody, taking care with each string of the lute. In unison, time itself slowed down around them; Sansa heard their footsteps in harmony echoing through the great hall, a gentle breeze drifting in from a few open mosaic windows that cast light upon the smooth floor.
The calm sweetness of love in her heart soon gave way to a restless fear. The moment must end, like a dream she would wake from, leaving tender joy on the pillow. To prolong it, she posed a query, "Will you fight?"
"I must," was his obvious answer, but she paid no heed, only smelling the musk radiating from his manly form. Most men carried the foul stench of unwashed flesh, wine-stained breath, and weeks of sweat, but not Aegon; he was always clean, and what lingered of his manliness then was a delight. "The king's presence gives men hope. With my sword on the wall, they will be ready to risk more, eager to show their worth."
The notion troubled her, so she gently pressed fingers on the satin of his back. Aegon felt it, bringing his face nearer, almost touching her forehead with his own. Blindly, they moved in space, as the floor of the throne room was large enough to host a thousand men but not large enough for two hearts.
"Haldon told me you are not as well as you pretend to others," she spoke on. "On the walls, you must go, I know, but let other men lead the charge. Many are more than able; Manwoody, Peake, and Pease."
He surprised her again, giving her a brief kiss on the brow. "The Halfmaester tends to be overly gloomy. His words to me were harsher. 'You'll not live to be an old man,' he said, if I keep tormenting my body with so much injury, but the king's peace is the law of the blade."
Closing the gap, she joined their brows, the soft pale skin of the feeble sun of the north touching the even paler skin of Valyrian blood. "And the king should not be reckless; great men err too. Honor put my father in the grave. If he was just an inch more selfish, he and many more men would live."
"If so, Lord Eddard might have saved his friend Robert, and we would never have met," he said. The state of affairs between us would have stayed the same, she knew the bitter truth.
"Father was deeply stricken by the fate of your sister and mother, and by yours, I suppose. For a time, he quarreled with Robert, as the king showed no mind to punish the murderers, including Tywin Lannister. Another illusion of my father; the south is not the north. Politics reigns, here, over justice, and honor is weaker than summer snow."
"What brought them together again? As they fought again recently, I have heard, for Robert wanted my aunt Daenerys dead, clearly not forsaking his old ways" Aegon asked, leading them almost to the shadow of the Iron Throne, a long jagged reflection on the smooth red floor, almost as ugly as the royal seat itself.
"More death," she gasped, changing the course of the dance from the throne, shyly taking the lead from a man whose heartbeat she liked to hear. Far from the Iron Throne, the towering pile of charcoaled swords meant a wide divide between them. "The death of my aunt Lyanna. She was Robert's beloved; songs tell of his shattered heart after her death, a great warrior broken. In a way, your father was the one who dealt the final stroke, destroying Robert's heart without a hammer."
"The girl was a victim of my father, the same as my mother and sister were. Never did I despise Robert for father's death, not at least as Jon did. To die by a foe on the field of battle, with a sword in hand, is no injustice... I am sorry, my lady; your aunt did not deserve such a fate," Aegon said in a low voice. His silent breath brushed against the strands on her cheek.
For a brief moment, the colorful light beams of the stained-glass windows dazzled her, and in that sightless glare, she held onto Aegon tighter. Her soul melted as his strong arms reciprocated embrace, offering her solace in steadiness. At peace again, she continued, "The death of a sister was a sorrowful subject for my father, so he seldom spoke of it. My father was not a man of many words anyhow; the weight of each word burdened him, so he did not squander his tongue in vain. Nevertheless, I always wondered, as so many did, why Prince Rhaegar took her." Prince, not your father, she was careful with words, not to cast any blame upon Aegon. Besides, you were just a babe, tiny and innocent. The thought of Aegon as a sweet babe brought a spark of joy.
"A prophecy," Aegon said softly, his voice shackled by sorrow. Sansa was left puzzled and speechless; she had seen men do foolish or wicked things out of lust or gold and, seldom, as Joffrey did, because pain made them feel strong and brought them joy. "It's an old tale, forgotten by most, as it was hidden from many. It speaks of Aegon, the first of his name, dreaming of a great doom falling upon the realm, cold and dark."
"The Long Night," she interrupted him, as that brief description matched the bedtime stories Old Nan scared children with in Winterfell. Boys and Arya enjoyed those, but Sansa not so much; she favored tales of love and chivalry. Yet, Others and great white spiders as big as hounds might be false, but life was still full of monsters lurking beneath the skin of men. "An old Lady from Winterfell frightened children by telling how Others sleep north of the Wall, soon to awake, to bring everlasting night, riding on the backs of huge spiders." That brought warmth to her heart, sending her back to the early days of childhood, blithe and free from the game of thrones. Aegon put on a small smile too.
"Well, the first Aegon believed in that tale or a similar one, and this is the strange part..." He went on, turning them once more to avoid a clash with the towering pillar. She found joy in his growing openness, speaking freely, freed from the usual stiffness that marked him while around others. "...it seems the dream was the spur for conquest, not a thirst for glory or the need for a new empire to replace the lost home of Valyria. No. A nightmare changed the lives of millions, forging a continent-wide realm, from the cold of the north to the heat of Dorne. The conqueror believed that for the salvation of mankind, a Targaryen must sit upon the throne of Westeros. A part of the dream-fueled prophecy was written down, passed to the next generation of royal blood. From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire."
A notion puzzled Sansa; a link must have been broken. "How do you know?"
"Little from Jon, even less from Varys, but most of the royal archive here was left untouched. Men like Robert care for standards and banners, not for parchments. Varys dreads prophecies and magic, so he left many things unsaid, but Pycelle, on the other hand, is very helpful and guided me to the right books and scrolls. He's old but still recalls what my father read so many years ago. It's a pity; the maester would be an asset if not for his treacherous nature."
"So your father thought himself to be the prince from prophecy," Sansa said, wondering how Prince Rhaegar must have been mad. How much woe he brought, just because of something he read in century-old paper. Dreamers are as dangerous as warriors.
Aegon nodded. "Initially yes. At least Varys belives so, but as with every prophecy," he mocked the prospect, bringing a smile to her face. The smile pleased him, earning her another kiss on the forehead as a reward. Now, everything seemed like a dream. "...and, like at the beginning of the second moon of this year; a comet appeared in the sky, heralding that my mother was with child. Me. So Father took that as a sign, that a hero was his unborn son because some other prophecy, favored by the followers of the red god's faith, speaks of a bleeding star."
"So many prophecies..." she laughed, and Aegon joined in, washing away some of the sorrow caused by Lord Connington's death.
"Good thing my father did not have an old lady from Winterfell, then he would believe in much more nonsense," Aegon japed, losing much of his usual royal demeanor, becoming almost a boy, her equal.
Sansa wanted to hear the rest of the story. "Prince Rhaegar died believing you are a hero of prophecy?" Playfully, she switched the order of words, giving Aegon attribute.
"No, he changed it again," waves of melancholy swept away the short-lived jest, "he wanted a third child, for the dragon must have three heads. Why, I don't know? My mother was of frail health; pregnancy with Rhaenys left her bedridden for moons, and I almost killed her coming into this world. She will bear children no more; it was plain to everyone." A bolt of anger pierced through Sansa. Did Prince Rhaegar rape Lyanna for a child? Aunt Lyanna was a strong-willed young woman, like Arya; mayhaps she chose death before dishonor, fighting him. Sansa fought the cruel images coming to her mind, keeping her eyes open. Alone and sad, no maid deserves such a fate.
"Is that..." the loud noise of drums cut off Sansa's sentence, reaching the many windows of the throne room from afar. The enemy finally arrived, she guessed, picturing Lord Stannis's ships across Blackwater Bay, ready to land before the walls. The middle Baratheon brother, she had not met, yet it was hard to imagine his looks. Renly and Robert were so different from each other—one grizzled and fat, the other handsome and slim. The first a warrior, the second a courtier. The third might be wholly different.
"Continue, please, my lady," Aegon urged her, loath to let Sansa go. "The drums are ours, marshaling the men on the walls. Stannis already has some thousands camped across the river, on horse, but harmless, as they lack the means to force the river. The battle will begin when the ships arrive or Tarly's men from the Rose Road, whichever comes first."
"Is my aunt taken to bear a third child?" Sansa repeated the question. Forced, she meant to say, though Aegon did not hold his sire in the highest esteem. Yet, one's sire is still a sire.
"Presumably," he said simply. "Why her, and not any other woman, I fail to see? Prophecy speaks of fire and ice; and snows, cold, and ice are of the north, as fire is of Targaryen kin. Was my father so shallow in his reading of words, I know not. Perhaps all of it is just gibberish, a folly made up by fortune peddlers to earn favor from a Lord of Dragonstone. The stature of the chosen did not spare my sister from a gruesome death, nor did it give father the third child he desired so much." A single tear made a voyage across his face, traversing bruised islands and slashed valleys of cuts.
A raven croaked, startling both of them, Sansa more than her pale-faced king. The bird took a place on a chandelier, so steady that the large golden spiral of rings barely moved under its weight.
"We are not alone after all," Aegon said, curiously looking at the black-feathered bird. 'Dark wings, dark words,' crossed Sansa's mind. Rarely is good fortune brought on the wings of a raven. She feared for Aegon's life.
Croaking again, the raven's harsh voice felt like a slap, and she lost sight of her king and the throne room. Instead, she beheld the Godswood ensnared in ice, a crown of green flames and thorns upon Aegon's brow as he sat leaning against the white weirwood, clad in armor not of plate, but of charred coal.
'The blood of the First Men flows stronger than that of dragons,' she heard the words of Haldon the Halfmaester, spoken in her own voice. 'The blood killed my father.'
Arya pounded on the door of the desert tower, weeping for Aegon who descended the stairs. "I've done all that you sought," she uttered through tears, now almost as tall as Sansa, mourning the loss of father and brother. 'But we've lost two brothers, Bran and Rickon,' Sansa couldn't bring herself to say, consumed by grief. The air was sweltering, hotter than when Sansa first ventured beneath the Neck, shedding the cloak of northern summer's coolness. And then, from the gaping entrance guarded by three white sentinels, rising to the tower's battlements, the wail of a child echoed through the premises. "Northern blood runs stronger, Sansa," said the raven, bearing Bran's face. "Sansa, Sansa, Sansa," the raven kept croaking.
"Sansa," Aegon's voice snapped her from sleep. She lay upon his knees, gazing up at his troubled face in bewilderment. "You swooned," he softly said, stroking her cheek with his hand. "Does that bird scare you..."
"Aegon," she breathed shallowly. "My aunt has indeed borne a child to your father." Shock and disbelief painted themselves across his eyes. Before he could say anything, a long horn sounded in the distance, followed by multiple reverberations echoing in all directions. The creak of heavy doors thundered as Ser Daemon Sand burst in. "Your Grace, enemy sails are on the horizon."