SANSA
She felt the familiar dread coil in her stomach when Joffrey sent Ser Meryn Trant to summon her. That meant another performance, another test of how much pain she could endure while keeping her face perfectly composed. The bruises from the last beating had only begun to fade—purple-black marks hidden beneath powder and long sleeves. Robb's victories always cost her blood.
Keep your face still, she reminded herself as Ser Meryn escorted her through the corridors.
She was brought into the throne room where Joffrey sat slouched on the Iron Throne, golden crown glinting in the afternoon light. Nobles lined the walls like carrion birds, their eyes hungry for spectacle. She knew some of their names now—had learned to read their faces, their hungers, their small cruelties. Court had taught her things no septa's lessons ever could.
She performed her perfect curtsy, every movement precise as a dancer's, and kept her head bowed. The stones beneath her knees were cold even through her skirts.
"Rise," Joffrey commanded, and she obeyed.
"You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."
She knelt again, the motion as natural as breathing now. "Your Grace, I beg you—whatever crimes my brother has committed, I had no part in them. You know this to be true."
The words came easily. She'd said them so many times they'd worn grooves in her throat.
"Ser Lancel," Joffrey cut in with obvious relish, "tell her of this outrage."
She looked toward the young knight, noting the excitement in his eyes. He enjoyed this almost as much as Joffrey did.
"Using vile sorcery, your brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves," Ser Lancel announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Thousands of good men were butchered. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."
Gasps broke through the crowd like waves against stone. Some of the ladies covered their mouths in horror. Others leaned forward, hungry for more details.
Lies, she thought fiercely. Robb would never—the North doesn't— But she kept her face perfectly neutral, Ruyan's lessons serving her now. Never let them see what you really think. Never give them ammunition to use against you.
Then silence fell like a blade.
Joffrey raised a crossbow, the bolt already nocked, and aimed it directly at her face.
The world narrowed to a single point—the iron tip, gleaming inches from her eye. She could see the tiny imperfections in the metal, could imagine the cold bite of it piercing her skull. Her death, sudden and final, hovering in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
He smiled, and she knew he was imagining it too.
"Killing you would send your brother a clear message," he said conversationally, as if discussing the weather.
Sansa didn't breathe. Didn't dare blink. She felt her knees lock, her palms growing damp with sweat beneath her sleeves. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. If she cried, he'd enjoy it. If she screamed, he might pull the trigger just to see what would happen.
So she stood perfectly still. Silent as a statue. Silent as the dead.
Her tears spilled anyway, tracking hot paths down her cheeks.
Joffrey watched her like a cat watches a mouse in its final moments—savoring every tremor, every tear, every stuttered breath. He gets bored when she doesn't react—and so he lowered the crossbow.
"But my mother insists on keeping you alive," he said with obvious disappointment. "Stand."
She rose on unsteady legs, forcing her spine straight despite the trembling in her limbs.
"I'm to marry you," Joffrey declared, loud enough for the entire court to hear, "and put a child in you once you've flowered."
Something inside her froze.
Not from fear—though there was fear—but from understanding.
They don't need Robb to kneel. They don't need Jon or Bran or Rickon.
They'll erase them. Quietly. Exile them, kill them, call them traitors—until only she remains.
The last Stark of Winterfell. A young queen, crowned in Lannister gold, carrying a Lannister heir.
That's how they'll crown their victory—through me. Not with swords, but with sons.
She felt sick. Not from the bruises, or the ache in her ribs—but from the certainty.
Ruyan warned me. When claim becomes currency, blood becomes debt.
This wasn't marriage. It was conquest disguised as ceremony.
"Be grateful you're no longer betrothed to that pale-eyed traitor," Joffrey spat, and she knew he meant Domeric Bolton. Another connection severed.
Then he sneered, the expression transforming his handsome features into something ugly. "You've always wanted to be a princess, haven't you? Now you'll be a queen."
"I am grateful for the honor of serving as your future queen, Your Grace," she replied, the words tasting like poison on her tongue.
Joffrey's smirk widened. "That doesn't excuse your brother's traitorous actions. We'll have to send him a message through you." He gestured lazily. "Ser Meryn."
Here it comes, she thought, and braced herself.
The knight approached with obvious eagerness. She'd learned to read the hunger in his eyes. He enjoys hurting her.
The first blow came across her left cheek—a backhanded slap with his gauntleted hand that made her ears ring and blurred her vision. Before she could recover, another strike landed on her right cheek, splitting her lip and filling her mouth with the copper taste of blood.
Just hold on. This will end. It always ends.
She folded herself into silence. The pain was terrible—but it was the watching that made her want to vanish. She felt every stare like a blade.
That's when she heard Lord Tyrion's voice, sharp with authority, ordering Ser Meryn to stop.
Sharp. Commanding.
Everything stopped.
Relief came like air after drowning. She didn't show it. But she felt it.
She held it all in. The pain. The shame. The rage that burned like wildfire in her chest.
For a moment, she hated herself—for being grateful that it was the Imp who saved her. A Lannister was her saviour.
Only later did she registere the heavy weight of Sandor Clegane's cloak settling across her shoulders. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like another reminder of her helplessness.
She watched through a haze of pain as Lord Tyrion put Ser Meryn in his place, then turned his attention to Joffrey. The king raged and screamed, but the Imp's calm lecture never wavered.
When he helped her stand, his touch was gentle—gentler than anyone had been with her in months.
As they walked toward the door, he spoke in a voice soft enough that only she could hear. "I apologize for my nephew's behavior. Tell me truthfully—do you want an end to this engagement?"
She lifted her chin, tasting blood on her split lip, and gave him the only answer that would keep her alive. "I am loyal to King Joffrey, my beloved betrothed."
The words came out perfectly, just as Ruyan had taught her. Sweet. Dutiful. Empty.
Lord Tyrion's voice faded behind her as she walked away. So did the court, so did the whispers and stares. Everything disappeared except the fire burning in her chest—not despair, but something fiercer.
Robb is winning. She smiled. I hope he burns every castle in the West.
The smile never reached her face, but it lived in her heart like a secret flame.
MARGAERY
The windows were open, but the breeze brought no relief. Highgarden smelled of summer blooms, but all Margaery could taste was tension.
Willas Tyrell sat with his cane resting beside him, hands folded over one knee. His expression, as always, was unreadable—but Margaery knew better. He was listening to every word.
Olenna Tyrell sat at the head of the solar table, fingers tapping against the carved wood in slow, purposeful rhythm. Beside her, Garlan leaned forward, arms crossed. Mace had said little since arriving. Margaery didn't expect him to start now.
Loras was not here.
Still a "guest." That was the word the Yitish princess had used. Not prisoner. Not captive.
Guest.
"Start from the beginning," Olenna said. "Every word, Margaery. I want your judgment, not just the court gossip."
Margaery folded her hands in her lap. Her voice was steady, but it took effort.
"She didn't try to kill him," Margaery said, fingers laced in her lap. "Twice, she let him stand. But it wasn't mercy. Not really."
"She picked him apart," Garlan said. "Unarmored, she still chose where to strike. One cut severed the shoulder strap. Another weakened his guard. It was structured. Every move followed the last."
Willas gave a quiet nod. "And she let him go on?"
"Until the sword broke," Margaery said. "Then he drew a dagger. She stopped using her blade entirely."
"She disarmed him?" Olenna asked.
"Hand to hand," Garlan said. "Quick. Controlled. She used leverage, not strength. It didn't resemble anything I've seen in the Crownlands or the Reach."
"And her demeanor?" Willas asked, not unkindly.
Margaery hesitated. "Still. Composed. She never raised her voice. She spoke once, maybe twice. It was the silence that made it worse, I think. As if none of it required effort."
Willas's brow creased. "So not theatre. Not a performance."
"No," Garlan said. "A statement."
"And she never raised her voice," Margaery added. "Not once. She was in control and she calculated. Even after he fell—she placed the dagger beside his ear. The gesture was not an act of mercy. She made her statement."
Willas nodded once. "In Yi Ti, silence isn't passivity. It's a tactic. She gave no ground—not even the sound of strain."
Olenna's fingers stopped. "No flourish. No cruelty. Just silence and a dagger in the dirt. That wasn't a threat. That was precedent."
"And yet she claimed him," Willas said. "Not as spoil."
"As guest," Margaery corrected. Her voice was flat. "And then she invoked Yitish law. Said slandering an imperial is a death-worthy offense. That he would be judged by their custom. Not ours."
"So she was never bound by Westerosi rules," Willas said. "Only mimicking them."
"There's a rumor," Garlan said. "The Kingslayer. Whispering Wood. Some say it wasn't Robb Stark who took him. They say it was her. Or her guard."
Margaery glanced up. "That report was buried."
"Just so," said Garlan. "The men who saw it—if they saw anything—couldn't recall her face. And none saw the bodyguard. The one they call Lihua."
Olenna leaned forward slightly. "Then she is not merely a consort. She is a sovereign."
Mace stirred. "Send riders?"
"Send coin," Olenna snapped. "No sigils. No names. I want whispers from Qarth to Leng. If she invokes imperial law, then she may carry the weight of an empire. And I want to know why that empire chose to bleed for the North."
She settled back against the carved chair. "We misjudged her. Discipline is not mercy. Quiet is not consent. She commands by standing still—and the rest of the hall adjusts around her."
She dismissed the others but waved for Margaery to stay. The solar cleared, leaving only the two of them.
Olenna poured the tea herself. "If we ally with the Lannisters, we'll have numbers. But she's not playing for numbers. She's playing for position. And from what I saw… she's been holding back."
Olenna gave her a long, sideways glance. "Because of the Starks?"
"Because she's still pretending this war has rules."
"And if she stops pretending?"
Margaery didn't answer immediately.
Olenna tapped her fingers once, twice. "We won't notice the board has changed until the pieces are gone."
"You think she means to crush us?"
"Not yet."
Margaery said, almost absently, "When her guard announced her titles—Grand Princess, Heir of the Celestial Court—I thought it was pomp."
"And now?"
"Now I think it was jurisdiction."
Olenna's mouth twitched. "So she brought her court with her."
"No," Margaery said quietly. "She is the court."
Olenna's hand stilled. "Masterful," Olenna said.
Margaery didn't disagree. "Terrifying."
"The moment she was accused, she found leverage."
"She demanded a trial. By our laws. Framed it in our language. And now we can't move against her without wounding ourselves."
Olenna picked up her cane and tapped it once against the stone floor. "That's not just a princess." "That's a tactician."