SANSA
Sansa turned the doll over in her hands, its once-fine gown fraying at the hem, the silken hair matted from too much handling. It was the one her father had given her after Lady was taken — a peace offering she hadn't wanted at the time. She'd screamed at him, furious, and left it untouched on her dresser for days. Now, in this gilded prison, it was the only thing she hadn't let go of. She kept it hidden under her pillow, away from the queen's ladies and their prying eyes. Each night, she held it close, as if it might whisper some trace of her father's voice back into her ear.
She didn't know the full truth, but she understood this much—she was a hostage. She and Jeyne, and perhaps Arya, though she hadn't seen either since the gold cloaks captured them nearly three months ago. Her father had secured them passage back to the North, telling her only that the city was no longer safe, never explaining what was truly happening.
She remembered that day with crystalline clarity. One moment they sat in their carriage—herself, Arya, Jeyne, and Septa Mordane—and the next, chaos erupted outside. Barthos, their guard, wrenched open the carriage doors and announced the gold cloaks had found them. Their path blocked, he urged them to run for the docks where a ship waited.
Arya, quick as always, sprinted ahead but paused to wait for them. Sansa and Jeyne followed while Barthos helped Septa Mordane. Two more guards arrived to assist, but then everything descended into madness as the gold cloaks caught up. Steel rang against steel, and the girls cowered in terror. Arya grabbed Sansa's arm, pulling her toward escape.
The three girls ran while Septa Mordane chose to stay behind. "I'll slow them down," she called, her voice steady despite the danger.
Sansa's heart broke leaving her septa, but they had no choice. They nearly reached the docks before spotting more gold cloaks already waiting. In that moment, Sansa knew their escape had failed. She gripped Jeyne's hand so tightly her knuckles went white, desperately searching for another way out. Arya did the same.
When more guards surrounded them, capture became inevitable. Sansa watched Arya stab her captor with Needle, and for a heartbeat, her own hand drifted toward the sleeve dart Ruyan had given. But she held back. If she must be a captive, better they not know she carried hidden weapons. This wasn't the time.
She saw Arya break free and run. When her sister looked back, hesitation flickering in her grey eyes, Sansa smiled—a lie, but one that commanded Arya to flee. Arya glanced between another approaching gold cloak and Sansa. At Sansa's nod, Arya ran.
The guards brought Sansa back to the Red Keep, straight to the queen. During the interrogation, terror clawed at her throat, but she maintained her composure. Cersei spoke of her father's treason—lies, all of it. Father was the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. He would never grasp for power as the queen claimed. Then Cersei commanded her to write a letter summoning Robb to the capital, informing him of their father's supposed crimes.
Sansa obeyed. When she asked to see her father, Arya, or Jeyne, the queen merely expressed disappointment that she wished to visit a traitor to the realm.
Now Robb was marching south. War had begun, and she remained their hostage. That meant Domeric too—her betrothed—would be caught in the conflict. In war, men died. She couldn't bear the thought of losing Robb or Domeric. Her thoughts turned to Arya, and she could only hope her sister had truly escaped, that their father still lived in the black cells. His leg wound was still healing, yet Joffrey and the queen wouldn't even grant him proper treatment. If they denied him that mercy, she feared they would kill him.
The day of her father's public confession, she wore the finest gown they'd provided and knelt before Joffrey to plead for mercy. Smug and cruel, he said that since she'd begged so prettily, he would show mercy after her father confessed his treason before the masses at the Sept of Baelor.
She could do nothing now but play by their rules. It was the only way to survive.
JEYNE
Jeyne stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was thin, her body barely beginning to mature into womanhood. She hadn't even flowered yet, but they were already stripping away her innocence. After their capture, she'd been locked in a room in the Red Keep for two days before being brought to this brothel. She'd spent that first night terrified and weeping. Unlike Sansa, she held no value as a hostage—she wasn't highborn. She understood what they intended to do with her.
Since her arrival, she'd been presented to the man called Littlefinger. He'd instructed the older women to "train her in the arts." She'd begged to be released, to work as a servant or maid instead—anything but this. She'd cried day and night until the other whores, annoyed by her constant sobbing, moved her to the last bed near the privy.
Her days followed a cruel routine. Mornings were spent working as a maid, cleaning rooms and washing clothes. Afternoons brought her "lessons." She was only twelve years old. They forced her to watch sexual acts—men with women, women with women. Her eyes would drift toward the scenes, but she learned to focus on other things instead: a crack in the wall, a button on a pillow. She would block out the sounds, retreating into her mind to remember the songs she and Sansa used to sing together.
She'd started counting the steps from her bed to the stairs. Just in case. She didn't know what she'd do if the moment came—but she'd know how far she'd need to run.
Every moment, she lived in terror of the day when she would no longer just watch, but begin her "proper lessons," as Mariah, her handler, called them.
One day, while scrubbing the floors, she heard a woman humming a northern tune. Looking up, she saw a beautiful red-haired woman. Since arriving at the brothel, Jeyne had spoken to no one, answering only when directly questioned. But something about that familiar melody gave her courage. She approached the woman, who was combing her hair.
"Excuse me, miss..." Jeyne glanced around nervously, as if she might be punished for speaking to one of the whores. "Are you from the North?" she asked in a soft voice.
The woman looked at her with sudden interest. Jeyne felt those eyes studying her carefully.
"I am, from Wintertown. Do you know the North?"
Tears welled in Jeyne's eyes. She knew escape was impossible, but having someone from home in this hellish place felt like salvation itself.
"I... my name is Jeyne Poole. Daughter of Vayon Poole." She swallowed hard. "He was Lord Stark's steward." She spoke carefully, having heard that Lord Stark was now branded a traitor—though she refused to believe it.
The beautiful woman seemed to understand immediately what had happened.
"You were sold here."
"I can't be a whore, miss. Please," Jeyne begged.
The woman paused, setting down her comb with deliberate care. She introduced herself as Ros, then her eyes flicked toward the door. No one was watching.
She didn't touch Jeyne or offer false comfort. She simply looked at her long enough that the silence felt like warmth.
"You'll survive," she said finally. "You're from the North. We know how to survive cold things."
Jeyne wiped her eyes. "But not this."
Ros's mouth twitched—something between a smile and a wince.
"This place... it's fire in disguise. Burns slower."
She turned back to her mirror, arranging her red hair with practiced efficiency.
"I'll speak to Mariah," she said, almost too quietly to hear. "See if I can keep you out of the rooms a little longer. But listen carefully—you don't speak to anyone else. You never say your name again. And if a man comes asking for a girl from the North, you don't look up. Understand?"
Jeyne nodded eagerly.
"Good," Ros said. "Now go cry into the sheets. It'll make them think you're still weak."
She added, almost kindly, "Weak girls last longer than fighters."
ARYA
The stench of the alleyways had become her world—rotting fish guts, stale piss, and the sour smell of unwashed bodies. She'd been living in King's Landing's shadows since her escape, and the grime had worked its way under her fingernails, into the creases of her skin, beneath her tangled hair. The weight of dirt felt like armor now, disguising her as just another street rat.
She hadn't had a proper bath in months. The cold stone walls she pressed against each night leached warmth from her bones, but Syrio's teachings kept her hidden and alert. The memory of his voice echoed in her ears: "What do we say to the God of Death?" The answer had kept her alive this long.
Ruyan's lessons served their purpose now too. She remembered showing the princess the secret passages of Winterfell, fulfilling her end of their bargain from the King's hunt. Ruyan had praised her wisdom, telling her to always familiarize herself with new places—to locate passages and exits wherever she went. Before they'd left Winterfell, those words had seemed like a game. Now they were survival.
During her time in the Red Keep, she'd studied every tour route, memorized maps in the library while the royal septa snorted dismissively. "You'll only get lost if you run away," the woman had said. Now Arya was a runaway, and she wasn't lost.
The safe places she'd found reeked of mildew and rat droppings, but they were hers. She didn't dare rent a room—too suspicious, too many questions, too many people who might steal what little she had. Ruyan's reminder to always carry coin had saved her life. The copper pennies clinked softly in her pouch as she moved, a metallic whisper of hope.
Food was rationed carefully. Stale bread scraped her throat going down, and she could taste the staleness on her tongue hours later. Water from public wells had a brackish aftertaste that made her stomach churn, but it was water nonetheless.
Guilt gnawed at her belly worse than hunger. She'd left Sansa behind, and the knowledge sat like a stone in her chest. But she also knew—felt it in her bones—that it was better the Lannisters didn't have them both. The whispers in the streets spoke of their father's supposed treason. The words tasted like lies on the air around her. Joffrey was the liar, she was certain. Her father would never betray the realm.
Then she heard it—three days hence, they would bring him to confess his crimes at the Sept of Baelor.
She waited near the Sept, sleeping in alleys that reeked of piss and rotting vegetables. The cobblestones pressed sharp against her ribs through her thin clothes. She told herself it was to see him, to prove he still lived. Her last piece of hard flatbread tasted like sawdust, but she chewed it slowly, making it last while she listened to the whispers carried on the wind.
The burnt loaves from the nearest bakery were bitter and charred, but they filled the hollow ache in her stomach. The baker's hands were always dusted with flour, and the smell of fresh bread from within his shop was torture—so close, yet impossible to afford.
Two days later, the crowd gathered. The air thrummed with excitement and bloodlust, voices rising like a tide. She couldn't see the platform through the mass of bodies, so she climbed the statue, the rough stone scraping her palms raw. From her perch, she spotted Sansa among the nobles, and guilt pierced her chest like a blade.
Then she saw him—Father, being dragged forward, hands bound, the crowd's spittle glistening on his face as they cursed him. She flinched. Her breath vanished. The world shrank to her father's face. The silence that followed was deafening as his voice carried across the square, confessing to treason.
No. The word screamed in her mind. He was lying—they'd forced him to say those things. She could see it in the way his shoulders sagged, hear it in the hollow tone of his voice.
Then everything shattered. Joffrey's voice cut through the air like steel, demanding his head. The crowd erupted in cheers that battered her ears like waves. She scrambled down from the statue, trying to push through the press of bodies, their sweat and excitement thick in her nostrils.
A man in black grabbed her path and locked her in his arms. His grip was iron, his clothes smelled of steel and leather. She fought against him, screaming until her throat felt raw.
"Look at me!" he demanded, his voice cutting through her rage.
She didn't know this man who forced her to meet his eyes, but something in his gaze made her stop struggling.
Then she heard the cheering crescendo, and he pulled her tight against his chest. The sound of steel meeting flesh was lost in the roar, but she felt it in her bones. She held her breath until her lungs burned, drowning in the noise around her. Then suddenly, everything seemed quiet.
She looked up at the birds wheeling overhead. The sky remained blue, indifferent and vast. Her father was dead. And the world didn't stop turning.