Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Kingsguard vows mean little when family blood stands in the way.

As Ser Lewyn Martell learned of the kidnapping of Lady Lyanna Stark, as he watched the King he dutifully served for years grow increasingly mad, as he smelled the burned flesh of those brave Stark Lords – he knew which duty weighed the heaviest.

In the cover of the night, he took his niece and her children and did not stop until he reached the safety that only Dornish sand could provide.

From then forth, the odds changed quite a bit.

Mad King Aerys died from a sword on his back much before the Battle of the Trident could ever take place. With the Targaryen King dead, not many Lords saw reason to rebel any further against the crown for a Stark daughter, no matter to whom she was promised.

When the former Prince Rhaegar Targaryen arrived at Kingslanding, victorious in his empty triumph – Robert Baratheon dead, Jon Arryn and Ned Stark defeated in their grief – he came to find Elia Martell sitting on his late father’s throne and ten thousand loyal Dornish men inside the city walls. All of them awaiting his return.

Elia Martell was a good woman, a gentle woman, and above all – a clever woman.

She wrote to Highgarden and promised the hand of her heir, her sweet Aegon, to the daughter they might yet have, should they support her before any woman her husband might prefer above her. To Lord Hoster Tully she promised Rhaenys to his heir. And to Lord Tywin she offered his son, Jaime Lannister, who she herself had pardoned, ensuring his father’s loyalty, albeit unwillingly, and a promise of release from his Kingsguard vows.

When Rhaegar Targaryen named Lyanna Stark, her sister-wife and their bastard, their legitimate son, Queen Elia Martell laughed heartily as she raised herself from the Iron Throne and went to her chambers. Followed closely behind by her own personal guard, the newly appointed Queensguard.

Her children were safe and her place secure, from the threat of a lesser man.

Those were the stories Sansa had been told, though Queen Elia had never spoken them to her. Nevertheless she knew them to be true, for it was Queen Elia who entertained the court, and it was she who heard the commoners and the petitioners. It was her presence the one requested in council rooms, much to the King’s displeasure. And it was to her the Lords bowed and beggared favours from, not her Lady Aunt – never to Lady Stark.

Sansa didn’t remember her parents very clearly, but she knew Lyanna had been a name unspoken in those cold halls of the North, and when she had been sent as a Stark ward to Kingslanding – a hostage – years later, it became clear to her that had the North held any love for Lyanna Stark, Sansa would have never been required to leave her home.

In the beginning it had been her lady Aunt that took charge of her. Until she found herself without patience for a little girl who preferred sewing and playing the high harp and the bells than riding and hunting.

And so, all alone and disregarded by the only family she had, it was Queen Elia that took Sansa under her wing. Presented her as a playmate to Prince Aegon. Made her a lady-in-waiting to Princess Rhaenys, when she grew older and more graceful. Treated her as her own daughter. Corresponded with her mother, Lady Catelyn, often to reassure her of her health and comfort.

Elia Martell was beloved all throughout the Seven Kingdoms and when King Rhaegar mysteriously died, after rumours that he had been searching for a third wife to fulfil a prophecy Lady Lyanna could no longer complete, after being made barren by her pregnancy as a child, no one batted an eye.

The mourning was quick and even quicker was the coronation of King Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, his regency firmly in the grasp of his mother, the Queen – Elia Martell.

Ser Loras Tyrell had named her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Sansa had blushed like a maiden and refused to look back at her husband who brooded, after being beaten by the knight. Looking instead to the Queen-Mother, who gave her an encouraging nod and then to the King, Aegon, who offered her a beaming smile and nodded her along to accept.

It was customary to give the crown to either the Queen or a Princess. With Margaery being in confinement, it was not so unreasonable that the Tyrell knight had offered it to his sister's favourite. Despite the humiliation it might provide her husband, it would have been unwise to deny the brother of the Queen. And it was only a small tourney.

The King gallantly raised himself from the makeshift throne, received the crown of white roses from the Tyrell lance and placed it upon Sansa's head as she kneeled for him in her fine silks.

And yet Sansa had known that the issue wouldn’t have ceased there, not even with Aegon's intervention, so she wasn’t surprised when she heard her husband’s echoing voice coming from the throne room.

"Either way, she has failed to provide an heir and we both know father would have preferred a marriage with Daenerys instead, had the circumstances been different. It would be kinder to send her North or marry her to one of Margaery’s brothers, if you wish. Let her be the Lady of Highgarden, she would be happier there either way," Jon reasoned with Aegon.

They had been married for almost two years. Her cousin, Jon, and her. Sansa could count with one hand the amount of times he had shared her bed chamber. They had decided together to cease their attempts to have children. She could only imagine where his change of heart had come from.

Having never been too close as children, when King Rhaegar had decreed their betrothal, neither had batted an eye, though a long betrothal ensued. Further prolonged by the King’s death. It was only when Aegon and Margaery had been married for almost three years, still with no issue, that the preparations began taking them both by surprise.

A Targaryen heir was required, and her Aunt Lyanna had been elated that her grandchild could have a chance to be on the throne, even if she might have preferred Daenerys as a bride, for they shared many of the same interests. Yet, even she, understood the need to keep the Kingdom happy, and who better than Sansa Stark, whose blood bound her to the North, the Vale and the Riverlands.

Aegon raised a brow at his half-brother and chuckled sourly.

"Poor Jaeherys. The most sought out bride in the realm and still he weeps for lesser women. It isn't you who is humiliated, brother. It is your wife," he told him, with a viper's tongue. "Do you think Sansa does not know? That she is a fool to your betrayals? You're just like Rhaegar, it seems. How quaint," he threw in the air as he passed Jon by, leaving a shocked expression on his brother’s face.

“Truly?” Jon laughed, shaking the surprise from his face. “You will say that to me, brother?”

Aegon made space between them, his features changing abruptly.

"I will send Daenerys to be married off as soon as I am able. Perhaps Essos. She has been with us long enough. The Targaryen blood is far too poisonous to be left unchecked. If you are seen with our lady aunt again, there will be consequences, I assure you," he told him sharply, before turning back to leave the room.

As the King crossed paths with her leaving the throne room, Sansa quickly bowed to him, shame colouring her cheeks that he had found her eavesdropping. But Aegon would have none of it, quickly taking her hands in his and pulling her up effortlessly.

“No matter if you-” he began.

The King shook his head, as if it pained him to speak of these matters. As if it shamed the both of them.

“It wouldn’t matter. You would never be sent away,” Aegon promised her softly.

Was that mercy or her punishment? It became harder and harder to understand as the years went on.

Sansa smiled generously and looked down at her blood-orange skirts to avoid his pity.

“I fear I have not the shield of a loving husband, for such assurances, Your Grace,” she remarked with some small degree of mirth to her voice, not wishing to upset him.

Aegon frowned but took her words to mind, along with her hands.

“You have the assurances of a loving King. You know that.”

Did she?

Perhaps she did once. When the lightness to him was only feigned. When they had shared the same weight and similar worries. Back when they spoke earnestly to one another, when a glance would have been enough for him to know she did not believe him.

"You have the King's favour, Sansa, you know that. Never fear. Your place will always be secure while I live. I swear it," Aegon sounded so earnest that the Sansa from her youth might have cried, as he gave her a warm smile and kissed the hand he softly held in his.

"Let us take honeyed water in the gardens, and those lemon cakes you so enjoy. I require your opinion in procuring my wife a name's day gift. If you would be so kind as to assist me," he proposed in his joyful manner, ignoring past hurts.

"It would be my honour, Your Grace," Sansa assured him, gifting him a true smile.

Aegon slipped her hand through the crook of his firm arm and led her away from the hollowness that was the throne room, to the comfort that were the gardens in springtime.

Sansa was breaking fast with her husband. They often did so. It was his way of keeping up appearances, of protecting her, he must have thought.

He betrayed her often, Jon, but he tried, to the best of his abilities, he tried to keep it hidden. Similar to his mother he was not well versed in court and courtesies. And an unfortunate liar. An indispensable skill for living in the Red Keep. It was no fault of his own, of course, that he never had been taught, that he had never needed to learn. He had never needed to learn how to survive.

Jon was his father’s favourite.

With his dark hair and his violet eyes, with his skill with a sword, his willingness to hear his tales of fantasy, he had been Rhaegar’s favourite, not that he noticed.

Sansa was sure, as was his lady mother, that had Elia’s power not been so great, her deals not so well crafted, so set in stone, Rhaegar would have disposed of Aegon and had Jon married to Rhaenys and Daenerys, a last effort towards his prophecy.

His lady mother had joined them today. An unusual occurrence, yet a habit every time the Queen neared her birthing bed. Her power had dwindled even further with Rhaegar’s death, and while Sansa was a favourite of both the Queen and the Queen-Mother, Lady Lyanna was little more than an honoured guest at the Red Keep after her lover’s death. So she came to her, her good daughter, for information.

“Tell me Sansa, do you think it’s a girl or a boy this time? Will she be far enough along they can tell?” she asked her viciously.

“Mother,” Jon reprimanded her crassness. He wasn’t too close to Margaery, but he loved Aegon dearly.

And Jon wasn’t cruel. He was many things, but never cruel. Much less for cruelty’s sake.

Sansa only raised a brow.

“From someone who once stood in the same place as the Queen, a little more kindness would have been expected, Aunt Lyanna,” she was quick to tell her.

Lyanna held her chin high.

“At least I was able to give my King an heir.”

“A spare, you mean,” Sansa corrected.

She could be vicious as well.

On other days, she might have held her tongue. Before Rhaegar was dead, she would have surely held it. For while Lyanna was not a Queen to Westeros, she had been a Queen to Rhaegar. She had been a Queen to the Red Keep, though far away from the throne room or any council room that held any sway, she had held a small court in the Maidenfort - though it dwelled in numbers ever since his passing, as did her standing.

Today, Sansa had heard Margaery scream as she laboured for a child everyone knew would be born dead, had to leave the room as Queen Elia took her place, for Margaery’s labours were always long and required them to have a little rest between them. Sansa had no patience for a fallen mistress who felt joy in another’s misfortune.

Lyanna clenched her fists, rose from her seat, and quickly abandoned the room, her grey skirts flowing behind her.

Jon sighed and took his fingers to his temples, massaging them thoroughly as if it would bring him some sort of relief.

“Did you have to say that? She’ll have a temper for days now, sweetling.”

She bit the inside of her cheek until it drew blood.

Jon was fond of it, the pet name. Of the illusion of intimacy that it created. Before they had been married she had treasured it, how one addressed a family member. Now it only served as mocking, though she knew he did not intend it as such. He never did.

Somehow it made it worse.

“Perhaps your lady mother should not enter spars, she is not certain she can win,” Sansa proposed with a shrug, looking deeply into her teacup.

There was much of wolfsblood in Lyanna Stark, but not much to hold her spine. She was a warrior on a horse but weak on her feet. Fragile when it came to words. Easily beaten in cyvasse. Easily beaten at court. Easily placing herself in peril.

“Besides, some might call her a traitor for all the glee she exhibits at the possible death of the heir. She should know her place.”

Sansa delicately took a grape to her lips to keep herself from saying anything more.

“Some might say it is you, lady wife, who should know your place,” Jon told her with little bite to it. “That you should be loyal to this family.”

Her Lord husband was perpetually morose, perpetually in mourning for being married to her, but never cruel. It irked her, if one were to draw blood let there at least be some intent to it.

“And I am Jon, I am loyal to the Crown. A loyal wife to you, husband. Who is it I should be loyal to?” she wondered, placing the most naïve look on her face as she could manage.

Jon looked away from her, shame marring his features, not being able to put to words his true feelings on the matter.

“You know what I mean,” Jon muttered like a green boy.

Sansa took a deep breath and looked over the scenery in front of her. She looked over Kingslanding, in all its glory. The smell of piss and sickness, always a faded constant in the air.

“Sometimes I wake up in a fright, remembering Ser Barristan Selmy ripping me from my mother’s arms. I remember Lady Catelyn crying and how imposing and lovely Winterfell looked from a distance. I wake up crying with the smell of snow close enough to reach. And then I see your mother, wilful Aunt Lyanna, who ran away with a married man, with a wife and two children to escape a marriage with a man with a bastard and the war they caused. On most days, I blame only your father, for she was a child then, with little choice, I imagine. But then she says those awful, awful things, that make it impossible for me not to place blame on her. For while your mother got to be the wilful Stark, I am the dutiful one. A hostage to your family, in the name of peace. She is wilful while others pay the price. So Jon, I am the most loyal I can be, to the ones I have been given the duty of being loyal to,” she told him, in a dead tone.

“Yet, you are loyal to the Targaryens,” he pointed out, eyes narrowed in accusation.

Sansa frowned.

It was Aegon Targaryen that had Ser Barristan Selmy dismissed the moment he became King, only because she shuddered when he entered a room. A true knight then and a true king now. Why should she be loyal to anyone else?

“Everyone is a Targaryen here, Jon. You, your mother. I am here, specifically because your mother is no longer a Stark to the North. No matter how dearly my poor Lord Father still loves her. I thought you understood that.”

She almost pitied the look he gave her.

“And the Martells?” he tried once more, leaning back in his chair, more curiosity to him than anything else.

“It was Elia Martell who took me in, when your mother didn’t find enough wolfsblood in me. She deserves all of my loyalty, while your mother disregarded it then and now regrets it. We all make our choices, Jon, and we all contend with the ones that were made for us. Even though some achieve it with more grace than others,” she was quick to say, hoping he understood her meaning.

Jon sighed.

Jaeherys Targaryen was not a good husband. But he was a good man.

He had never struck her. Never been unkind while he took his rights, no matter how drunk they got themselves before he took them. He never raised his voice to her. And though he did not love her as a husband should, there was a commodity of respect they shared from a happy childhood they had spent together. They had been friends once. All of them – Viserys, Rhae, Aegon, Dany, Jon, and Sansa.

And more than that, there was shame to Jaehaerys Targaryen that his mother lacked. A great deal of shame that followed him like a shadow. Shame about the blood spilled during the wars. Shame about the hostages of the war fought in his mother’s name that would forever wander the Red Keep’s halls, Sansa Stark, and Renly Baratheon. Shame on himself for taking a mistress of such noble standing, with a wedded wife in the chambers by his side. Shame that he believed himself undeserving of both, and still he had them.

Therefore, they lived in peace with one another.

Jon to his whore and Sansa to her moments of honest bitterness, far in between.

“Lady Sansa!” she called for her with a sickening joy she thought she masked much better than she truly did.

Sansa looked up at Daenerys and took a deep steadying breath.

She had a child’s face, even as she stood a few years her elder. A pretty little thing, tiny and plump. She acted like a child too. While she was a Princess by blood, Sansa was a Princess by marriage, and she should have been addressed as such. Still, she would let Daenerys call her whatever she liked.

Sansa had her own secret names for her as well.

“Princess Daenerys.”

Once, before her marriage she would have needed to rise and bow to the woman. No such thing was required now, and even if it were, Sansa would not bow to her husband’s mistress, especially when she clearly expected her to.

It hadn’t hurt Sansa, back then, to bow to her. Back then Daenerys had been sweet, at the hems of the only mother she had known, as Queen Rhaella died in childbirth. Her violet eyes were always bright with dreams and mischievousness. They had played together; they had heard the same stories.

Yet, as she grew, King Rhaegar’s tales of wonder, of Old Valyria, of dragons and prophecies and Targaryen exceptionalism had been far more interesting than the duty Queen Elia spoke of. While Viserys remembered the Mad King and the pain he had imposed upon his beloved mother, and he too kept to Elia, Daenerys had no such memories. The dragon blood meant as much to her as it meant nothing to them, who had seen it’s terror unfold. Daenerys started to look down on those who for so long had stood beside her and it began to hurt then.

Daenerys rolled her eyes and dismissed her Velaryon companions who snickered behind her, for she only entertained those of Valyrian blood and descent or connected to such. And sat beside her, the ringing from the bells in her hair giving Sansa a dreadful headache.

“You might have achieved it then, all those years ago. After my brother died. You might have achieved it then, when you were the favourite,” Daenerys noted bitterly. “Certainly not now, cast into the shadow as you are from the King's affections.”

Sansa had only to raise a brow to beckon her to continue.

“Aegon won’t send me away,” she assured her, making her intentions clear. “He has threatened to do it for years, but he never will. He understands, you see. Even with all that Dornish blood, he understands dragons have to keep to their own. Our strength is in our blood. He understands our love. He understands why Jaeherys could never love a cold trout like you. How only I can give birth to the Targaryen heirs the Crown so desperately needs. Only I and Jon can give a future to this House, if Aegon doesn’t set her aside. Everyone knows that.”

And Daenerys giggled, to add insult to injury.

Sansa let go of the book she was reading, turned to face her fully and she smiled at her.

She had been raised by a Dornish woman; she had been raised by the Sun of Dorne. She knew her worth.

“Is that so, Daenerys? Then why don’t you have a child? Have that Targaryen child you so want. Have that Targaryen bastard, let your belly swell with my husband’s seed and give him a bastard. For that is everything that child will ever possibly be. Dream of all the Blackfyre rebellions you wish for, Daenerys, and might those dreams of fire warm you at night, for I assure you they will never come to be,” Sansa promised her, leaning forward. “Who would fight for your child? Who would ever raise arms for another Targaryen inbred bastard after all the wars we have seen. After all the mad Targaryens we have had to endure.”

Sansa laughed boldly and shook her head dismissively.

Her words took the princess aback, for she had never been spoken to this plainly, but there was fire in the dragon, and Daenerys wished to burn her.

“The North-”

Sansa would not allow her to.

“Does not recognize my husband as a Stark. Why do you think I’m here? Why would he or the Crown have need of me as his wife if the North claimed him? Jon is nothing more than a Targaryen bastard outside of the walls of the Red Keep, Daenerys. Don’t be the fool everyone thinks you are. It is only my marriage to him that gives him any sway. And should he betray his most noble wife, daughter of the North, the Riverlands, connected to the Vale, for the Mad King’s daughter. You think they would raise their banners for him?” Sansa cocked her head to the side in challenge.

Daenerys shook her head vehemently and gripped the sides of the table, her dainty fingers turning white.

“They don’t need to. Aegon would legitimise my child. If this child dies, he will have no other choice. And my child will be King, a true Targaryen King, who will bring the honour and glory that have left us with the dragons. And you will be nothing,” Daenerys seethed.

Sansa straightened her spine. “You-”

“That is quite enough from you.”

Sansa lost her breath at the sound of Aegon’s voice and felt her ground leave her, at the smile that broke on Daenerys face. Sansa watched as if turned to stone, when Daenerys rose to meet him and he took her white face in his sun-kissed hands, tenderly, as one would do to a child or sibling, and for a moment – Sansa feared.

Irrationally, she feared…

They had been so close as children – Sansa and Aegon. Yet age began separating them season by season.

His studies to learn state and warcraft had left him with less time to engage in their childhood plays. And Sansa too, spent more and more of hers with Queen Elia and Rhaenys, both girls learning everything they could from the woman, united by friendship, and love towards the woman who raised them so carefully.

A sharp stabbing pain took hold of her heart for she remembered other things. That she kept closer to her heart. Things that happened when his father, the King, died and Aegon searched for her company, for her council. And they grew closer once more. She remembered when her opinion was requested on everything. When no matter was too small or great to be shared with her. When no thought was as valuable as hers. Those two years they had been inseparable.

Until Margaery arrived and everything that should change, did.

His marriage cemented the end of their childhood. Him and Jon had formed a great kinship and she saw less and less of the boy she knew and loved. Sansa had entertained the notion that once Rhaenys was married she would go with her, but as she left to marry her uncle Edmure, Sansa stayed behind – alone with Jon and Daenerys – with only Queen Elia to keep to.

Aegon had always favoured his mother above his father, never made much of a secret of it, much less after his death. Never shared Daenerys and Rhaegar’s pride in the dragon blood. Still, Sansa was a hostage of the Crown, and Jon was her husband and lord. And Daenerys, although a mistress, was a princess and his aunt. He could have Sansa punished for having spoken her mind, if he so wished. If Daenerys was indeed right and Sansa was so far removed from his affections.

Aegon did not take his eyes from Daenerys as he spoke.

“I have forgiven you so much, for I always saw you as a child, and my father failed you as well. Yet enough is enough and I cannot let his delusions cloud your judgement any longer. I cannot send you North, for it would be a great insult, after your sins. Yet, some time at Casterly Rock, with Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime, should teach you who your father and Rhaegar truly were. They will teach you true Targaryen history and you might still become someone we can yet be proud of.”

Daenerys slapped his hands away and Aegon did not flinch at her outburst.

“That Kingslayer! You cannot be serious Aegon. You will choose her over me!”

Sansa knew he wouldn’t.

Aegon would never allow Lord Tywin to have Daenerys so close to his grasp. He had petitioned for her hand for Ser Jaime for far too long for Aegon to now deliver it to him while she had such rage in her. Such rage that could be used most unwisely by a more seasoned player. And yet it was a good threat to ensue for one such as Daenerys.

“While arrangements are being made, you will address Sansa by her title, as it is her right and you will bow to her, every time your paths cross. Have I made myself clear?”

Daenerys sneered.

“A Princess of royal blood does not bow to a Princess by marriage.”

Aegon’s eyes sharpened, and he lost whatever softness remained to him towards his aunt in that moment.

“You will bow to her, because I am your King and I command it. You will bow because you have made yourself her husband’s mistress, therefore she is above you. You will bow so everyone will know you are beneath her. And we shall start treating the other kingdoms with the respect they are owed. Do you understand me?” And it was her King who spoke and not her nephew.

For a moment Sansa thought she was going to scream, but Daenerys only turned away, eager to leave their presence before tears started to run down her face.

Aegon caught her by the arm before she could.

“And should you have a Targaryen bastard,” he mouthed carefully, “I will take away your titles and whatever lands I may have entertained the thought of giving you. Do not defy me, Daenerys,” he warned her, his tone never rising.

Daenerys refused to look back and only nodded enough so that Aegon would let go of her. Running away as soon as she could.

Dragon fire burned hot, but it also burned fast.

“You didn’t have to,” Sansa told him, refusing to look at him and yet finding her eyes drawn to his all the same.

Aegon smiled softly when his eyes finally found hers. An exhausted smile of a man who carried too much. Fought too hard. Lost more than enough.

Sansa was ashamed of having doubted him at arrival. Aegon would have never… he would have never harmed her. She knew that as an absolute truth. While they were distant, Sansa would allow herself to admit they were far from indifferent. He had always ensured that her place as hostage in his court was one of privilege. He would have never treated her as he did Daenerys, not that there had ever been a reason to.

She made to rise, to bow as she should have when she first heard his voice, but he waved her down.

“But I did,” he assured her, sitting beside her.

Sansa hummed, biting on her lower lip, enveloped by his lemony scent.

“Is something wrong? Have I offended you in any way?” Aegon asked carefully, leaning forward, searching her face.

Sansa had been married for two years. Alone, without Rhaenys, for three. And yet it was now that he looked for her at last. Paid attention once more. It was now that he made promises he did not intend to keep.

Why was that? She would rather his silence than his lies. Aegon had never lied to her before. He was not a liar, he had never been. Sansa found this change ever more cruel because of it.

Sansa waved his concern away. “Of course not.”

Aegon narrowed his eyes on her.

“Don’t lie to me, you’re quite terrible at it,” he attempted to jest.

Sansa disagreed.

“You would never send Daenerys to Casterly Rock,” she said at last.

“Well, maybe not to Casterly Rock,” he agreed, looking over the contents of her table, searching for a ripe peach he might bite into, to avoid further conversation. Sansa knew him well, she had never ceased to, no matter how much she tried.

Aegon leaned back in his chair and dropped his stare to his hands, having found no suitable distraction. A nervous habit from childhood that Sansa had been privy to less and less ever since… Sansa couldn’t think about it for fear of what emotions she would summon.

“Did Her Grace enjoy her name’s day gift?” Sansa asked in an attempt to free them from the subject that demanded both their thoughts.

Sansa knew she had. She was her chief-lady-in-waiting. She saw everything Margaery’s hands touched. The Queen had been gifted a Myrish eye ⁽¹⁾, for her own personal use, so she might look upon the stars during her confinement periods, which delighted her to no end. And ten yards of golden Myrish lace so fine any seamstress would be fearful of misusing it.

Sansa had been delivered a velvet box that same night to her chambers, five yards of it for herself.

“Very much so. You were right as ever, in your suggestion.”

There was a beat of silence that threathened to drown them.

“Has Jon been unkind to you?” Aegon dared to ask, at last. As if it mattered. As if it made a difference.

How could Sansa answer that? Was there kindness in betrayal? Perhaps, if one looked carefully.

“Jon would never strike me.”

And that was true. But it was not enough for Aegon. It was not enough for her.

"Are you unhappy, Sansa?" Aegon seemed so concerned as he asked that it almost broke her heart, as he leaned forward and searched her eyes. “I do so wish you were happy here, with us.”

With her estranged husband.

With his resentful mother.

In this golden cage of a dead man’s creation.

“Us?” she asked, in breathless surprise, though she shook her head as if it would make him forget her words. "I am content, Your Grace."

And she was.

She had reached some measure of peace in regard to her situation. She had a distinguished position at the court of Aegon, the sixth. She lacked for nothing, no material thing was ever denied to her. She had never been hungry, nor cold, she had never lacked for companionship, though sometimes she was wistful for love – Sansa lived an agreeable life.

Aegon’s face still fell, but what did he expect her to do, what did he expect her to say. That would be enough to quell his guilt for having kept to the wishes of his father.

"And would you be happier if I sent Daenerys away?” Aegon tried once more, his violet eyes so keenly on her, that she was reminded of how she had mourned the loss of them.

Sansa would be happier if she could see Winterfell again. She missed the snow most dearly, though she barely remembered it. They could all go, she almost said. A royal visit to the North. The cold might prove itself beneficial for the Queen’s health. A change from the stifling air. But wouldn’t that sound like running?

“Why haven’t you?” Sansa ventured to ask, to her once closest friend. The person who her happiness had depended upon and still did. The one she had loved the most in the world, to her shame and sorrow.

Where have you been? Was what she wished to be answered. What she wished to truly know.

“I… I thought it wouldn’t make a difference. To you,” Aegon found himself saying, his eyes painfully attentive to her every expression, going over every inch of her face. The tip of her freckled nose, the twitch of her cornflower-blue eyes, her strawberry stained lips… her sadness. Evident in her every movement.

Sansa frowned in bewilderment, her cheeks burning under his attention.

“Why wouldn’t it?” she wondered, at a loss. “I’m not sure I would be happier, but I would be less humiliated. That’s for certain," she answered forwardly. To assess his candour if nothing else. “If I am not a wife, what is my purpose here, Sire?”

And the shock that passed through his features, as if she had stricken him… It startled her in turn.

Yes, Sansa was Margaery’s favourite. She ran her household, threw her balls, greeted her guests, and wrote her letters. Held court, when the Queen could not abide it, for sickness, pregnancy, or boredom. Took care of all those pesky things Margie couldn’t be bothered with, and yet someone had to be. But what was that, if not salt one throws at a gaping wound.

“You’re-”

“Sansa,” the Queen-Mother’s gentle voice beckoned. “Queen Margaery asks for you at her bedside.”

“Your Grace,” she bowed to Aegon in excuse, then to Queen Elia who smiled and left to serve her Queen.

"Avert your eyes, mother," Aegon commanded her, ignoring the urge to hide his face in his hands.

That he knew what went on between Jon and Daenerys and did nothing was worse than when Sansa had simply assumed him too preoccupied with ruling to look attentively at the state of her marriage.

The paint over his failures chipped at every turn.

"What for, Your Grace?"

And that tone.

Aegon despised that tone of hers she had only ever used with his father. When Rhaegar was being a fool and she couldn't be bothered to explain to him how and why. Yet he was still her son, and her patience was never ending for him.

"I can't bear your disappointment."

Elia Martell let go of a hollow laugh and tilted her head, her heavy gold earring reflecting the light of the sun.

“I wager you can endure a lot worse than that.”

Aegon had spent his whole life hoping he wouldn't have to. Every action he took, document he signed, word that left his lips he did so in service of his mother. To honour her. To make her proud. To show himself worthy of the Martell blood and name. Deserving of the Iron Throne, more than anyone else that had come before him. And he had, many times he had. But not in this, never in this.

Never in regard to Sansa.

They had been the closest as children. Rhaenys was older yet Aegon and Sansa had the same weight placed upon them. Similar expectations towards correcting another’s legacy. They understood one another.

And as children they had been easy to part. Dutiful as they were. But when Rhaegar died, something shifted. Aegon’s hands shook all the bloody time, and he became breathless – only Sansa’s presence relieved him. Only she knew how to sooth him. Only she could make all the weight less pressing with her tender words, her soft smile, and her steadiness. Sansa was the bright light he looked towards, she was the eye of the storm.

When Aegon came of age, the regency ended, and Elia’s departure for Dorne for a visit that lasted two years… Well, it became easier and easier to keep the shame at bay and search for Sansa’s company.

"You could have Daenerys married to a sea lord of Braavos in less than a fortnight. She might choose which one. She might even be happy surrounded by the riches and adoration any virile man would give her," she proposed taking Sansa’s seat.

Aegon cringed from having to bear witness to his mother speak with such candour.

“She loves Jaeherys, surely, but she could be compelled to forget him.”

"Daenerys is far too highborn for that. What would my lords say,” Aegon asked. “That I have rejected so many for her hand and yet would gift it to a lord of Braavos."

The Queen-Mother only had to raise a dark brow.

It wasn't even a good argument, he agreed. A sea lord from Bravos would be three times as rich as any lord that had offered for her hand in Westeros. Exempt Lord Tywin, but that was a suit he would never accept and every lord on the land agreed with the rejection.

"Riverrun then. A stay with Rhaenys would do that child a world of good. Your sister won't mind at all, and Lord Edmure is very agreeable to her every wish. Lovely man that he is," she offered in good spirit.

"Mother..." Aegon sighed, looking down.

"You have to give Sansa a chance. If you love her as I think you do –” Elia shook her head and chuckled miserably “– As I know you do. You would give her the chance to build a life with your half-brother. Sansa is owed the chance. If not from the Gods, then from loyal service to a loving King," she seethed.

Aegon was reminded that Elia Martell could be the storm. That while she so often chose to be the soft spoken, even tempered Sun of Dorne, she could at any time become the sandstorm that could shake the foundations of Kingslanding. That could unmake her son.

"What if -'' Aegon attempted, taking a deep breath, refusing to become a green boy in his mother’s presence. "What if she doesn't want one? What if she doesn't want him? Wouldn't it be cruel of me to-" he desisted immediately when he met her disappointed almond eyes.

“An honourless son I can give thanks for, a selfish one I shan’t suffer to bear,” she said accusingly. “Your half-brother is not cruel. But he cannot leave Daenerys, he cannot abandon her, he will not, with her here. He is too… honourable for that, in his own way.”

His mother did not say it to be cruel, she said it because it was the truth.

The cruelty laid in Aegon’s hands for having them married in the first place.

Jon had Daenerys first and to leave her for his wife, he would not, unless pushed. He was a better man than him, in that regard. Aegon had ignored it, after all… Daenerys was barren, having maesters confirm it after her first marriage.

Given space to fall in love with… with his wife, Jon would have. Aegon knew he would, and he would pursue Sansa's love without shame of betraying Daenerys. Which was why Aegon never sent her away. It was why he had them married in the first place.

“You have been a good husband to Margaery, my son. You have paid her every attention and every honour. She is considered your beloved Queen, whom you will not be parted from, and I am proud of you for it. For having dedicated yourself to your marriage. For how you have crafted peace. Yet none of this is built to last,” his mother argued, her raised finger pushing against the table in an effort to not draw the attention of passers-by.

“Why not?” he demanded of his mother though he knew the answer by heart. “Why shouldn't it be? Myself and Margaery are under no delusions of devotion, nor passion, we are aware of the truth of our marriage. We both understand the political nature of it, and we respect and honour it as such. Margaery knows I would never betray what we have built and the child that will come of it.” 

Elia’s eyes sharpened.

"It cannot last when Sansa stands in the corner of the room holding your wife's hand, or the trail of her dress every step of her way. It cannot last when you look past Margaery to search her eyes for joy or sorrow, afraid of what you will find, if you will find anything at all. It might not bother your wife, but you cannot be certain that it will remain so," she advised patiently.

Margaery had always known to whom to turn. Who knew the correct order of things, who she could trust to not lead her astray, who would always point her the right way. She had easily delegated the bulk of her duties to Sansa, commanded his Hand – Ser Lewyn – much in the same way. Aegon had always wondered if he had needed commanding at all. If it wasn’t simply the remains of the natural order of things before Margaery came to these halls. Margaery had seemed to be relieved by the freedom of it and Sansa given purpose by the task.

If there finally was to be a child... Everything would change once more if there was a child. And by all of the Maester’s reports they had never truly been this close to having a child.

A living one.

Margaery would rise up to the occasion to protect her little rose from whatever perceived foes, that much he knew. The fear would be built into her by her house. That once he should have a living heir, legacy, and order secure, nothing would keep him from searching for the one he wished above her – his second queen – they would whisper in her ear. The love she bore Sansa would be poisoned then.

"I know you, who I raised you to be,” Elia assured him proudly. “I know that you would never place your wife in the danger I was placed in, that you and your sister were placed in. You have had the chance to be a good husband, and you are. Facilitate your half-brother with that chance as well. You are not your father. It isn't your marriage you betray now.”

It was Sansa.

“Sansa was raised for it. I raised her for it. She was raised to be the lady of a great house, instead of being the wife of a landless knight. A lady-in-waiting at the whims of your Queen. Sansa is owed a keep of her own to tend to. And here she is, tending to another's…” his mother reprimanded.

“Tending to the one that should have rightfully been hers,” Aegon said boldly, as he had never ventured to before, reaching for Sansa’s abandoned glass, not surprised by the taste of Dornish Red. “The one that flourished under her care and still does. The one I built around her.” He took a deep breath and shook his head mournfully. “I will accept all manner of reproach, but not the implication that relieving her of her standing in my court was any desire of mine, that it was anything other than obedience to my duty and rebellion against my heart and judgement.”

Elia nodded slowly, almost amused by his candour.

She had seen them fall in love, after all.

To his surprise then, she had been silent when she returned from Dorne and found a new court. The head of it clear enough to all those who paid attention. And Elia Martell always paid attention. Some would say it was because his sister, Rhaenys, had no patience for it, others would have claimed it a child’s passing fancy. Aegon always believed his mother waited for Margaery’s arrival before thinking of intervening. Yet Sansa had always known her place and she stood aside, made space for Margaery, held her train and made herself as indispensable for his wife as she was for him.

And it united them, in truth. Their love for Sansa united them.

"And if you wish me to grieve the knowledge that Margaery as well understands the length of her abilities and appreciates them as well as I do, I shall not."

That would not do for his mother.

“Do you think that brings Sansa comfort? That it matters? That she even notices the power she yields? From whom it comes from? Sansa believes herself cut off from your affections, my dear boy, she believes she never had them at all. Can’t you see that? That while you are certain of your heart, of the time you shared, of the impact of her words and actions in your choices, she is not? That she believes herself wicked for having entertained thoughts of your care in those two years, given how quickly you turned away from her when Margaery came to us. She believes this to be her punishment. A stranger in your presence.”

Aegon swallowed harshly.

“What should I have done differently, mother? Should I have confessed my love to her, begged her forgiveness for it not being enough to put my duty aside? Would that have made it easier for Sansa, do you think?” he asked her truthfully.

He had considered it then. Many times.

All those nights they spent over candlelight, drafting ledgers, going over accounts. When she became drowsy with sleep, and he chose to carry her off to her chambers in the cover of night. Auburn curls spilling over milky flesh freckled by the sun of Kingslanding – how her bare shoulders demanded his undivided attention. How they still did.

Aegon had considered whispering it in her ear how much he loved her. How much he could not endure being parted from her. How no other woman could, nor would, ever compare. How his hands shook when she wasn’t in the room. That he couldn’t let go of her. That he could never send her away for fear he might not breathe.

And yet he placed space between them, in an effort not to shame Margaery the way his mother had been shamed. He doted on his wife in an effort to not give fire to the whispers that he loved the Stark hostage more, in an effort to not have anyone believe he was Rhaegar's son indeed. He became him.

“I quite think Sansa would have understood that. She would have forgiven you for that. It’s only that you wouldn’t. While she would have respected you, for placing your duty above your heart, you couldn’t bear to admit you are no Duncan Targaryen. Something she never needed you to be. You should have arranged a worthy marriage for her. Far from here, where she might have prospered. Where she might have forgotten you. Instead of a pretext to keep her where your eyes can reach. You should have been stronger then. If not for your sake, then for hers,” his mother raged unabashedly. "But your silence, your absence – devoid of explanation? I doubt she can understand that. I doubt she understands her place in the Red Keep at all, that she believes herself anything more than a hostage."

"Certainly, she doesn't-" Aegon whispered unsure. "Certainly, she isn't so blind to the truth."

Elia shook her head and sighed in defeat.

"Why shouldn't she be? Sansa doesn't wish to be her lady aunt and she knows you to have never wished to be your father. Why should she look for explanations that she cannot accept? Why not simply consider her condition under your reign the same as it was during your father's – a Stark hostage in service of the crown," Elia shocked him into reason by asking.

"I'll release her," he vowed. “I’ll give them Dragonstone.”

His mother took a deep breath and cleaned the tears from her cheeks, before raising from her seat and taking his face between her slender hands. Placing a kiss upon his forehead as she had when he was only a boy.

"It will be easier then forth, my son."

"I… I only put space between us for I feared that I…" Aegon tried to explain. "I feared one day the guilt and shame would grow fainter and I would ask for something I would never forgive myself for."

Elia shook her head mournfully.

"If I could have imagined… all those years ago, what would become of us… Forgive me for being the cause of your suffering. For being the cause of hers. It was difficult to account for love back then, faced with such fear."

Aegon shook his head vehemently – his sins were his own.

"You were strong when strength was demanded of you. You did what was required for our survival and perseverance. How could you have known that love could be as poisonous as-"

"It isn't… Aegon, it isn't. You would have made for the most joyful match. It simply… could not be. And the reasons that draw you two together will always be the ones that draw you apart. Duty is a strong thing. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have been easier if you both put it aside," she mused, looking away from him, facing away from whatever answer he should offer her. Fearful of what would come out of him. What further disappointment…

Aegon let out a dry chuckle and shook his head.

"You don't believe that mother. It would make a hypocrite out of you and a stranger out of me. Duty is the death of love. And you have raised a dutiful man," he assured her, tending to her worries, covering her hands.

"Love can be the beginning of duty as well," she offered hopefully, her eyes finding his once more, the sweetness to them overbearing.

Freeing her would be the beginning of his love for Sansa.

And the end as well.

"Sansa, dearest," she greeted her, trying to sound joyful in her hoarse tone.

It had been the third babe she had lost ever since Sansa had become a Targaryen princess. The sixth time her chambers reeked of blood and of tears.

Margaery had been the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, with her large doe’s eyes and soft cascade of brown curls. Yet with each babe she lost, a little more joy left her and so did her strength.

"Margie..."

"Don't you dare pity me, Sansa Stark. Your Queen forbids you. I am a Queen and a beloved wife. I'm simply not a mother. I have made my peace with the Gods. I won't allow myself to be pitied, not by you, sister. Now sit," she commanded her, patting the side of her bed.

Sansa did as she was told.

There had been a time when Margaery had detested her. When she arrived at Kingslanding, a Targaryen bride, she had been jealous of her. Their hostage. But then she and Aegon had been married, and there wasn't a more attentive husband than him, a man who loved his wife as dearly.

And so, Margaery’s jealousy turned into pity, for the Stark hostage, for the loveless Targaryen wife, and she took Sansa as a sister. Taught her everything she should need before her first night as a wedded woman, even if she barely had need of it. Brought crafters from Highgarden to make her wedding dress, red silk and all the pearls she could find in the sea to braid into her hair, yet still not enough to make her into the Targaryen wife of Jon’s dreams.

Margaery tried very hard to smile but it only made her tears flow more easily.

"It's simply that..." she cleared her throat in an effort to speak "... none of them had ever lasted so long. She even kicked my little girl. I would have called her Alyssane. Aegon was so happy, I had never seen him so happy, you see. She was so beautiful my little girl, they don't usually let me see them. But she was big enough this time, so they allowed it. She was so beautiful Sansa..."

She allowed herself to cry now. Unabashedly, unashamed and when Sansa laid beside her and took her in her arms she only cried harder and harder, a howling mother’s cry that broke her heart.

"They want him to set me aside,” she told her among hiccups. “They have wanted it for a very long time. He always told them no. We've been married for five years. It's too long. One of Cersei’s daughters. He has no choice now," she shook her head as she whispered it.

Sansa took her burning face in her hands.

“Aegon loves you so dearly, Margaery. Everyone can see it. He won’t set you aside, he’s not like his father. He is all Elia, he’s all Martell. You must place your faith in him."

Margaery shook her head.

"Aegon doesn’t love me. Not enough. Not nearly enough."

She looked up into Sansa’s eyes, both of the women’s faces stained with tears.

Margaery took a deep breath, though it took none of the strain from her voice. "Grandmother thought... We thought that perhaps it was him. The Targaryen blood is ill, you know that. Everyone knows that. Even if the Dornish blood diluted it. So, one of the times… only one, the one that only lasted two moons... It wasn't his. So you see, it's all my fault. All of it. It's all me," she confessed.

"Margaery..." Sansa whispered breathlessly.

"You must never tell. Swear it, that you will never tell what I told you now," she demanded of her, nails piercing the flesh of her arms.

Sansa nodded vehemently.

"I swear," she promised, as the tears kept on flowing, and she ran her fingers through Margaery’s sweat matted hair.

"Hear me, sister,” Margaery pleaded with her, looking back. "If Aegon were to sire a child on... If you were to bear his child, he could name it his heir, I could retain my place. My life. The Red Keep loves you more than me either way, and a Targaryen heir is a Targaryen heir. They know of Jon’s infidelities, and they will figure out the child to be my husband's upon the birth. It matters not. Then we could promise the heir to one of my nieces and the Reach would be pleased enough."

Sansa remained quiet for a very long time, assessing the gravity of her intentions, shocked into silence.

"You cannot be serious. You're far too tired, Margaery. You do not mean it," Sansa argued.

"Of course I do. He loves you, can't you tell! He has always loved you! Before me, after me. Always. It was his mother's oath to the Reach, for them to support them during the wars. He is a man of duty, my husband, your King. It was what needed to be done. But you!” Margaery laughed. “He has always loved you, so terribly much."

Sansa shook her head in agony.

"Aegon is loyal to you. He has never strayed. He has never looked at any other woman at court. Much less me. He has kept to you and your bed and favour. He has never looked at me. Not once. Never." Sansa remained adamantly soft, in spite of all that built up inside her.

Margaery laughed miserably at that, as if she pitied her most terribly.

"Truly? Why were you married to Jon, then? Aegon could have forbidden it, broken the betrothal when he became King. Made another match instead. Why not Willas? Why not one of his dornish cousins. Why not one of the hundred able bodied men, landed knights or powerful lords who asked for your hand?” Margaery challenged. “Why would you be given to a Targaryen knight who all the world calls a bastard, if not to keep you here? Where he can see you! Where he can care for you! He made Jon a threat just so he could keep you near. Can't you see? You are such a bright girl, Sansa, can't you see?! The most wanted bride in the Seven Kingdoms, connected to three of them by blood and he marries you to his bastard brother!”

She laughed until tears fell down her face.

“See sense, Sansa. I beg of you, dearest."

"I do not love him like that," Sansa said faintly instead, making space between the both of them. The heat overbearing.

Margaery rolled her eyes.

"Of course you do. You love no one else like him. Your eyes shine when he enters a room, and you force yourself to look away. I know you do. You laugh at his jests, the ones I can barely understand, and blush like a maiden when he laughs at yours. You put so much space between you. When you married Jon, you couldn't look at Aegon for moons. Before he walked you down the Great Sept…” She stopped herself and took a deep breath, the laughter to her gone. “My husband cried in my arms. His wife's arms. And he mourned you so much during those moons, he looked like a ghost until he saw you smile at him once more. Until you spoke to him once more."

Sansa swallowed a gasp at her words. Took a deep breath and faced her.

"Why don't you hate me then?! Why don't you hate me?"

Sansa remembered opening balls with Aegon. Margaery too far along in her confinement to attend. How he would take her by the hand and spin her around the room until she could not shake the smile from her face. Until she could pretend she was… How he danced a song after another without fatigue, unlike with… with the Queen.

Had Margaery been somewhere in the Red Keep dreading hearing the news of it? Back then Sansa had considered it a kindness… that he would dance with her when Jon wouldn’t. That her King would choose to be her gallant hero in a ballroom. That he would return to who he was before his marriage. That they could be close once more.

Were those memories spoiled now?

"I do Sansa, I do. You are my sister, I made us so. To keep myself in your good graces is to keep myself in his. And I love you, I do. Few people I love, as I do you, this effortlessly. None can understand that, not even I. And yet I hate you as a wife and a queen. And he loves me, like a husband, he does. My Aegon. And he has never strayed. Never went to whores or lower ladies with your red hair. Yet he chooses to love me every day. You,” she said accusingly, “he loves effortlessly even as he tries not to."

"And do you love him?" Sansa wondered in spite of herself.

"Aegon is my king and husband," she said, as if it were answer enough.

Sansa's eyes sharpened for a moment, but there was no judgement to her. Only pity at the position they were in. That they had been forced into.

"More than you love being queen?"

Her words hit Margaery like a cold splash of water and Sansa regretted them immediately.

“Claws at last, my little trout,” the Queen laughed though she could have just as easily cried.

Sansa knew her well. She had attended her for five years, she had loved her for just as much. She had eased her way into this court when she could have made it difficult.

It was true, in some way, what Daenerys had said. She had been the King’s favourite once. As highly regarded as any man who stood in his council. She had led the court faced with Rhaenys disinterest and Elia’s absence. 

Sansa had been given Margaery’s cold shoulder at her arrival to Kingslanding, but still she had persisted in her courtesies, in her desire to extend her hand and willingly give up her seat. And Sansa did. She eased the duty of her King by aiding his Queen.

“I shall concede that you love him more, and better. That you have forsaken much for him. That a lesser woman might have asked him to throw our betrothal to the wind and marry you instead. That a lesser woman would have had no qualms to become his mistress and tend to this keep as nothing short of a Queen in everyone’s eyes. But I was raised to be the Queen, Sansa. It is all I know how to do. Men are raised to be kings and demand it so. Should I be ashamed to want to keep my place? The one I have held for five years? What I was born to be and excel at. The same way that you are ashamed of loving him more than you love you gods forsaken duty?"

Sansa shook her head.

She didn’t.

She didn’t love Aegon more than her duty. To manage this indignity would have been easier if she did.

"Should I be the one to pay the price for your crown, then? For your place and comfort. Have him and his child, send him back to you and forget him," Sansa wondered with far less kindness than when she had entered the room.

Margaery shook her head vehemently.

"You can keep him! You can! You can be happy, with one another. You will be his Rhaenys, and I will be his Visenya," she assured her, her face red and her eyes glowing with a shade of lunacy. “And we will be sisters in truth.”

Sansa nodded slowly, disgust marking her features.

"The Lyanna to his Elia."

Margaery swallowed dryly.

"If you must, dearest."

It was Sansa’s turn to laugh then.

"You will have me carry that shame? My sister. You would have me lose everything that has kept me standing all these years. A hostage for the woman who was what you ask me to be now! You would ask me to throw my honour to the wind for your crown. Forfeit whatever dignity is left to me in its favour."

Margaery kneeled before her on the feather bed, with significant effort since she was clearly in tremendous pain, grabbed her skirts to keep her in place as Sansa moved to leave the room.

"Where do you think they will send me to, Sansa? Highgarden? To be a forgotten crone. The Silent Sisters? To be a voiceless, nameless woman. Have mercy on me," she begged her.

"Ask another woman to bear your husband's child, name one of Rhaenys' children the heir. I do not care. I will not give anything more of myself to the Iron Throne," she told her, bleeding away her words and refusing to look down as she forcefully pulled Margaery’s scorching hands from her gown and left the room.

"A girl, Your Grace," the old maester announced.

Aegon clenched his fists.

Margaery always suffered more with the girls. To lose a son was painful to her, but it reminded her she could bear an heir. To lose a girl, was to lose a daughter and it hurt her heart. It hurt his in turn.

"Where is she?"

The old man looked to the table where a little bundle of white cloth was. His heart swelled for a moment. They were never so large. He approached carefully. He always made a point not to see them. Margaery as well. Not after the first one they lost. But his girl was so big, he couldn't bear it not to see her. To never be able to picture her face. He unwrapped her very gently. What a little pink thing. A wasp of dark hair like her mother. The smallest little button nose.

"Ten fingers and ten toes," Aegon whispered.

None of the Targaryen deformities. A perfect girl. A perfect daughter he had lost.

"You might name her, perhaps. It has been said to be beneficial for the mourning, at times. And she was healthier than any other before," the maester offered.

Yes. Margaery would like that.

"What was amiss?"                   

This time, Aegon did not add.

He did not wish to give strength to the rumours around court that his wife displeased him with her labours.

"The lungs, Your Grace."

Like the third and the fifth, Aegon remembered.

"The Queen won't endure another try. It's more loss than a body can bear," the maester remarked, looking away from him.

Aegon nodded, his mother had been the same way. And Queen Rhaella before her. And on and on it went. The rotten Targaryen seed.

"You won't share that with the council."

"It is my duty to-"

"Your duty is to serve your King. And you will do what you are told," he demanded of the maester.

The old man bowed.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Aegon took a deep breath and placed his lips upon the babe's brow, before taking the time to wrap her up once more. He said a silent prayer to the Gods, Old and New, for his child and then he delivered her to the Silent Sister who stood there keeping vigil.

Margaery had always requested that he not attend the births. That she could not bear his eyes as she disappointed him in such a way. He respected her wishes, of course, but it pained him to never be sure if the child breathed or not at the same time she did. As did having to hear Margaery’s condition from others.

When Aegon had first laid eyes on Margaery, five years past, he took comfort in that she was exactly what a Queen should look like, though she could not be the wife he wished for. They understood one another, they had built their marriage upon a strong and honest friendship, his wife had always known what she could expect from him, what she could not, and he understood the same about her.

No one lit a room quite like Margaery did. She charmed his lords, always knowing exactly what to say. She entertained the court like no other. And she was fearsome when she put her mind to it. Aegon treasured her, even if he could not convince himself to love her as much as he should.

Not when Sansa was always around for comparison. When Aegon had placed her at every corner for comparison. He thought he only tormented himself this way. The notion that he tormented Sansa as well was… inconceivable.

Unforgivable.

"Marge," he whispered as he entered the room.

The overwhelming scent of tears and blood.

She was as pale as milk, her face swollen with tears. He urged to reach her, taking his place by her side.

The one thing Margaery could not do was give him a living child. And she was terrified he would set aside because of it. Which undoubtedly was his council's greatest desire. Aegon would not fuel them with the knowledge that there was no longer any chance she could. He had a duty to her as well. She had given as much of herself to the Iron Throne as he had.

"Did you see her? Wasn't she beautiful, Aegon?" she prompted him, her eyes a beacon of light.

"I did. She was. The most beautiful babe."

Aegon placed a kiss upon her brow, felt his lips burn.

He got up to wet a cloth before placing it upon her forehead.

"Maybe we should name her, this time. Would you like that?" he offered his wife softly.

Margaery smiled so beautifully he almost convinced himself into thinking their child lived.

"So very much. Alyssane? I always wanted an Alyssane," and she sounded so damned hopeful he wanted to rage against the Gods for all the sorrow they made her endure.

"That would be lovely, my dear."

Aegon cradled her against his chest and ran his hand down her chestnut curls while she muffled her cries.

"I think this was the last time," she said very softly, avoiding his eyes, clinging to his shirt. "I think... I think Sansa might prove herself more able in this."

His whole body stilled, and he wasn't able to draw breath for the longest of times.

They had always been honest to one another. But this was another thing entirely. Margaery had always known where his heart laid, and Aegon had always been comforted by the knowledge that hers didn’t lay in his hands. But to speak of her in such terms… they never had. Margaery was too proud and Aegon too ashamed.

Margaery looked up to him at last.

"Not with your half-brother, of course. But maybe, she would be amenable to your attentions. If you... If you bestowed them. I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't, Aegon. I love her so very much, you know that. And she loves you so very much. It would be a solution to everything. You would have an heir. You would have a child and I would keep my place. I would love him as my very own. As long as it is only Sansa. Only Sansa will do."

Aegon couldn't bear her ramblings any longer.

He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"I won't hear any more of this Margaery. Anything but this. You can't say those things. They'll think you're mad."

She narrowed her eyes in thought and shook her head vehemently.

"I don't think she did. Truly, I don't. She was only surprised. She didn't know. Did you know she didn't know? All this time I thought she did. I tried to hate her for it. Because I thought she knew, and then I loved her in spite of it, the other half of this crown I wear. Some days, I love her more than I love you… my faithful companion. I think you love me more on those days too, don’t you, Sire?” she asked to his amazement, though she became lost in thought once more.

“But Sansa never knew. I despised her for something she never knew.”

Margaery giggled while she shook her head against his chest.

"What? Margaery, what?"

He made for her to face him, placing a finger under her chin.

She was delusional, Aegon was sure. She would never say these things if she was not.

"Sansa,” she repeated, as if he hadn’t heard. “Darling girl, she is. She didn't know you loved her. Can you imagine that? Everyone of consequence knows, how could she not?"

Fear crawled up his neck.

"You... You said these things to her?"

“I just asked her what you wouldn’t. What you always wanted to do. You mother could forgive that, surely. You can’t become your father if it’s me who is asking, can you?” she asked, truly expecting an answer. “You can't take me from my home, Aegon. You can't. My babies are here. All my babies are buried here. I can't leave."

Margaery shook her head vehemently.

"I would never-"

She reached for his face with her scorching hands.

"Oh I know, my love, I know. I would never think so ill of you. But they would make you. And this way... This way they wouldn't. We could be happy, couldn’t we? The three of us? We already are."

Her eyes wouldn't focus on him, she was looking past him.

Aegon detached himself from her to reach for the water vase.

"Margaery, have some water. You’re too warm," he demanded, though his thoughts strayed from this room.

It was Sansa who commanded his thoughts, imagining her face as she stood at Margaery’s side and was asked to become his mistress. As she was asked to betray the very core of her being. All her years in Kingslanding…They hadn’t been any way to honour her, nor the love he bore her. Aegon now saw how he turned it rotten. How he turned his devotion ugly, by stringing Sansa along at the foot of every event of his life.

Allowing Margaery to do the same.

"I always am, after the..." she shook her head. "Well, I always am."

"Not like this. You have never been like this," he assured her.

Aegon went to the door and commanded the guards to get the maester before returning to her.

"One of Rhaenys babes. Or Viserys," he proposed as they waited for her attendants, in an effort to soothe her worries.

She laughed then.

"Another Dornish? There's only so much they can bear, my love.”

"You are very ill, Margaery."

She laughed some more as people began filling the room.

Aegon swallowed harshly on his way to her. He knew where to find her, of course. He always knew though it wasn't often that he did. Not since Margaery’s arrival.

Sansa was kneeling in godswood.

The one he had built for her.

All these years hiding this terrible secret. Holding on to some small desperate hope. All these years and yet... Here she was, crying on that gods’ damned godswood. Just like she did when she arrived. Just how he promised her she never would again after he became King.

"Margaery... She didn't mean it. It's only the births... I'm told they take too much blood from her and sometimes she is delirious," he did his best to explain, despite his hoarse voice.

It wasn't Margaery's fault, of course. She was simply terrified. What a poor husband he was to her as well.

"Marge was just frightened I would send her away – my lady wife. She's still weak from the miscarriage, a fever, you see. She meant none of it," he rambled like a child. The tension in his voice was palpable, heartbreak so thick, the concern with the fact that she remained with her back turned to him. "I will leave you to your prayers, Princess. Forgive my intrusion."

"Was it true?" Sansa shocked him by asking. “Is it?”

And she sounded so devastated, his heart ached for it. That she would see it as such a dreadful thing. That she would see it as it was. As he never could.

"Which part?" he drew out.

Sansa turned her face to him and only raised a brow. She had learned that from his mother. Which only served to shame him some more.

Aegon looked down and took a deep breath before speaking. Before laying out secrets at her feet no one else had needed to be told.

"I have loved you for as long as I can remember, more than I have loved the Queen," he managed to say, each word wrestling against his lips. The strain it was taking him to confess was almost unbearable. To them both.

It was remarkably easy to love her. Unimaginably hard to let her know.

"Do you know what I remember? Spending most of my life waiting for you. Waiting for you to notice how much pain I was under."

"I noticed," Aegon assured her.

It was his greatest shame. 

A laugh escaped her lips at that.

"Yes. I think you did." She nodded to herself. "Did you marry me to Jon to keep me near?" 

Aegon couldn't speak so he gave her a nod. 

"Did you keep Daenerys in the Red Keep all these years so he would never be able to forget her? So I might never grow to love him?" Sansa refused to cry as she asked it, but he could hear how her voice shook, he knew how much she wanted to.

"Sansa... I... "

She refused to hear him and turned again to the Godswood. So that only the Gods could see her tears.

Aegon could have broken the engagement. It was what Sansa had expected him to do all along. Jon as well. What was expected of an unequal match dreamed up by a mad king. It was what he wanted to do all along. But when the time came, and Aegon considered the distance of all the suitable matches… the thought became unbearable. And Jon was right there, their kin, their friend.

"Could you? Have loved Jon. Could you? I've often wondered if it was only my interference." Aegon surprised even himself by asking. By not allowing those to be the last words they ever spoke.

Sansa was silent for a long while, before raising herself off her knees and turning to him. Her face marred with tears. A strand of red hair leaving her coiffure. And it shamed him how beautiful he found her in this moment. How the honesty that they shared now, even in anger and disappointment, relieved him, because it brought them back together once more. 

When he first became King, when the regency ended – it was to Sansa he went.

Not his mother, who he was afraid he might disappoint. Or Rhaenys who he feared would resent him for taking the place that was rightfully hers.

Aegon went to Sansa. Shared everything with her. She wrote the first draft of every missive he ever sent in those first two years. She corrected them and added notes to his speeches. She saw and went over everything. And when Margaery arrived at King's Landing, and he had to… cease seeking Sansa’s company. It felt like an unbearable loss. It still was.

And more than that… it had felt like betrayal then.

Betraying Sansa with his wife.

Exchanging her for his wife.

Abandoning her.

And he did.

Aegon convinced himself that seeing her was enough. That those scarce conversations he had with her in halls, ballrooms, and meals, were enough. But they weren’t. And so each day he drew further away in an effort to never ask her for something she would not be able to give him. That he, as well, would never be able to accept, much less ask for.

"How selfish of you,” Sansa accused him of. “How utterly selfish of you. Isn't Margaery everything you could have asked for? Is she not the light of every room? Was I not deserving of being that for someone?"

Aegon nodded along. She was. She had always been.

"You are just that for me," Aegon had no qualms to say at last. Her pain demanded it of him. “You know that. You always knew that.”

Sansa shook her head and he had to temper himself not to reach for her.

"I am not. I could have been, perhaps I was, once, when we were young but…”

He had to stop her then and there.

“It started before my father died. You should know that. That it wasn’t…” Aegon shook his head. “That it wasn’t because you lent me your ear or your support in those years, that the feelings came of it, as I know you’ll try to explain it away. That you will make yourself lesser than you are, I searched for you because I finally could, Sansa. Because no one could stop me then. After my mother left for Dorne. Because I always wanted to, and… it was a relief that you came when you were asked.”

Sansa was silent for a very long while after he spoke, her breath caught in her throat. As if she wanted to hear it. To put his words to memory. To believe in them. And he grew hopeful, for something that he could never have, but wished dearly to.

But then Sansa swallowed harshly and Aegon almost smiled in anticipation for what words she would use to refute their bond. She would die before admitting her worth. He would have liked to have a life to spend convincing her of it.

“You and Margaery have been all for each other for the last five years. You have shared every joy and every sorrow…"

Aegon narrowed his eyes on her. 

"Does that make it easier for you?" he wondered, taking a step forward, convinced she wouldn’t step back.

"What? What could possibly make any of this easier-" 

"Those lies you tell yourself. Five years you say, as if I didn't turn everything into a family affair. Celebratory dinners, welcoming parties, political journeys. Hunts, balls, and feasts. Everywhere – you had to go with us. Did you believe I wished for my mother to hold my hand every step I took? Mother was invited so that you could be as well," he had no qualms to admit.

There was too much honesty between them now already. He wouldn’t allow her to remain in the in-between now. 

Sansa laughed breathlessly in jest, and Aegon was relieved that she dispensed with being his demure subject. That she should grow comfortable to be herself in his presence once more. That she should grow bold and angry and never fearful that it to be enough for him to become displeased with her. That she would once again accept her challenge to be welcomed. And his heart constant no matter the tides into which it was thrown.

"Shall I offer you my gratitude for that, Your Grace? Do you think I welcomed the sight of both of you? That holding her hand as she birthed your children was something I took pride in? That it was easy seeing you laugh with her and dance with her and be happy with her? Do you think it didn't hurt being replaced?" she demanded from him.

"There was only ever joy to me because you were in the room. I couldn't not marry her, Sansa," Aegon whispered, though he knew she would have never asked him not to.

Sansa shook her head vehemently.

“Don’t you dare say that! Don’t you dare turn me into something which I am not and will never be. Don't you dare imply I would ever stand in the way of your duty. That I would ever wish to.”

Aegon nodded.

“I know you wouldn’t. It doesn’t mean that sometimes I didn’t wish that you had,” he confessed.

Sansa was breathless for a moment. 

“Even if I had… It wouldn’t change who you are. Who your mother raised you to be. You are no Duncan Targaryen, and I am no Jenny.”

Aegon almost laughed, that all in this keep should be haunted by the Targaryens of old and the women unfortunate enough to be loved by them.

“Indeed, we are not.”

“Why now then? Why bury me in King's Landing, why build your marriage around this secret only to confess it now?”

Aegon hadn’t intended to bury her here. He had built the Red Keep around her. A monument to her.

“I feared it was all too much to endure, the words Margaery spoke and my…silence. And I fear I might have led you to believe… that you didn’t mean all that you did, and still do. That I forgot you.”

“And didn’t you? We spent every day together, we were everything but… and just like that, Margaery arrived, and you took great pains to avoid me. You ceased speaking to me, you… abandoned me. And I understood the need for it, I did. And certainly we danced, and certainly you were no less… caring in our interactions but… You made me question my judgement, my assertions about your character, about my own! What was I to think? What am I to think now?” Sansa demanded of him at a loss.

But there could be no answer. Because despite whatever was now between them, it changed not the fact that he was King, Margaery was his Queen, and he would never be as the Targaryen Kings that had come before him. And in his silence, Sansa came to her own answers.

“Only that you pity me, a few times in between. Only that I am another jester in the service of my King. To be picked up and dropped off at your convenience.”

“Sansa…” he sighed. “I…I thought you knew my heart. And I thought that… perhaps you might not feel the same,” he looked down as he said it, so as not to bear her eyes. “That I would only insult you by-”

"And I thought you didn’t know mine. But you did,” she threw back at him. “You wouldn’t have married me to Jon if you didn’t. You wouldn’t have been cruel, to give me to a man that could not love me, if you found it possible that I could find it in my heart to love him. I know you! You thought it wouldn’t make a difference,” she repeated his words. “To send Daenerys away because you knew I loved you!”

She loved him.

She had loved him.

In this moment he gained everything he had ever desired and lost it all at once could be nothing short of divine justice. Aegon cursed himself because never before had he been this certain of her affections. Never after would he be again.

“And all that I could have forgiven, isn’t that ridiculous of me,” Sansa whispered more to herself than him.

“You could?” Aegon asked astounded.

Sansa looked at him as if he were mad. Perhaps he was.

With a dead child and a feverish wife, at the feet of his lost lover.

“What else was to be done? You couldn’t have broken the engagement to Margaery. You couldn’t have kept me here, an old maid… But to have said nothing… your silence… I…” she shook her head vehemently, regaining control of her bearings, as soon as he lost his.

His mother had been right.

“I want my marriage to Jon annulled. I want… I want to return to the North.”

“North?” Aegon exhaled, followed by a weak nod. “If it’s what you want.”

“It is,” she decided, crossing her fingers, forcing herself to sound sure.

“I’ll make the arrangements then,” he commanded himself to say. “But it will change nothing, my lady. I can… I could never see you again and it would change nothing between us,” Aegon assured her, for her peace of mind or his, he could not say.

If it was virtue or damnation, that her hold over him should be so great, he knew not as well.

“Before today I would have thought the same, Your Grace,” she said it to harm him, though the tears could be heard in her voice and Aegon despaired that Sansa would harm herself in an attempt to deservedly draw his blood.

Sansa took a steady hold of her skirts and walked past him.

Left him to the deserved judgement of her Gods.

"What did you tell him?! Did you beg? Did you threaten him with the North? What did you say to him?" Jon raged against her, holding her arms, making her lean against the wall.

"Release me at once," she commanded him, her voice clear, even if she had been crying just before.

He did so, but his eyes lost none of their purpose.

"Aegon has sent her away. He has threatened to do it ever since we were married. But he had never done it before. He sent her away and I don't know where to." He ran his bruised knuckles through his hair.

Sansa was so exhausted it took her a moment to understand his meaning.

"Your mistress? He sent Daenerys away?"

"Yes! So tell me what you did, so I can fix it!" he pleaded with her.

"I did nothing," she told him earnestly.

He shook his head.

"You're lying. Don’t lie to me Sansa, not now."

Sansa rolled her eyes.

"I am not. He should have sent her away years ago. But I'm afraid I had no hand in her departure. Perhaps you should ask what she might have said or done. She is known for not having control over herself. So many things she could have done," Sansa trailed on.

Jon snorted. "He had no reason to do it except for you. So tell me what you said!"

"I said nothing. And if it were for me he would have sent her away the moment we were married. So turn your accusations elsewhere. Husband," she carefully enunciated the words.

"You always had him around your finger. He always loved you above everyone. The never-ending supply of lemon cakes on every single table. The bards, always about to play your songs. The godswood. He has always favoured you. I respected you because you never used it, but now it ends. Tell me what you said!"

How could Sansa have been so stupid.

Rhaenys had left for Riverrun, and she had felt so alone. Spent her days in the godswood day in and day out, like she had when she was young - hoping that if she clanged hard enough to the gods of Winterfell she would not be taken away from them. One day she returned to a true heart tree, a true place of worship instead of the dry garden it had once been. It didn't take her long to realise the new King had been the one responsible, yet she had been too abashed to show him the proper gratitude.

Sansa was glad she hadn’t, if he had it built for guilt.

She laughed in his face. Loudly and clearly, to mask the fear she felt for the first time towards her husband.

"If he favours me so, it would be unwise the way with which you are treating me now, wouldn’t it, my lord?"

Jon clenched his jaw but persisted to hold her in place.

"I am your husband. I can treat you how I please," he said, and Sansa could see how he regretted saying those words. How he heard his father in them, how it shamed him to look like him.

Nevertheless they enraged her, and she found strength to say what she wanted for so long. "You are a bastard with no lands or power, and I am Sansa Tully Stark, the king's favourite. Release me, Ser."

His eyes widened and he took a step back.

"Has Aegon had you, Sansa?" he asked, his eyes sharp, the first time truly looking at her, for the first time looking at her like a husband would. "Tell me. Have you finally given in. Have you? Tell me."

How dare he.

"I have not had him. I am a loyal wife. Even if I have been given to a disloyal husband."

Jon shook his head in a rage.

“Egg did that, you know. The King you so love. It was him who gave you to me. I did not push this marriage on you. I forced you to nothing. Demanded nothing from you. He did," Jon pushed, hoping to harm her.

"Yet it was you who betrayed and humiliated me at every turn. Should the blame for your faults be placed on him as well? Should our disappointing marriage be his fault alone?"

"You speak of loyalty, yet when have you ever been loyal to me? Whenever have you loved your lord husband as a wife should? Were you ever glad for my attentions, did you ever pursue them? Did you offer me your favours and ask me for dances? Did you ever try? Was I ever not the Targaryen bastard, the reason you were forced to be here. The cause of your pain!"

"Did you? Loyalty is not love, Jon. Should I have pursued the attentions of a man who went to his Aunt’s bed on our wedding night? Loyalty was what should have prevented you from seeking another woman's bed, even if you loved her. Which I know you did not.”

"How dare you-"

"You don't love Daenerys; you love that she loves you. You love that she sees you above your brother, your king. And not even to her did you remain faithful, did you? Margaery told me. You took advantage of her desperation. How did you dare? Have you no shame?"

Her guess took him aback. She had been bluffing, but it seemed she was right. It had to be either him or Viserys, to ensure the Targaryen blood.

It had been him.

Sansa had considered it an attempt to soothe a desperate woman, afraid of being put aside. Things done in the dark in service of a duty that could never be named. The continuation of a dynasty built from lies. Unwise remedies but understood by terror. Secrets one carried to one’s grave. Dark things done in the cover of the night to keep war at bay.

"Leave my chambers at once, or I will tell the King of your betrayal."

Sansa would not. Never.

She had promised Margaery and she would never be able to turn brother against brother. No matter all the things that turned her from both of them this moment.

"You are my wife. You wouldn't."

And yet he wasn’t so certain, not with the rage hanging heavy in her throat and the tears clouding her eyes.

"Try me, husband."

Jon ran from her chambers.

Sansa felt the tears already creeping in from only the sight of her.

She hadn't cried this much since she was a child. Since Queen Elia took her by the hand and taught her how to live at court. How to survive the blows and the daggers. The kind words of poison. The vicious words that cut.

Nothing could have prepared her for this. Nothing had ever hurt like this.

"Do you know? What Margaery asked of me, do you know?" Sansa demanded of the greying elegant woman that was a mother to her. The woman that had been her comfort and her balance all these years. That had been her shield and taught her to use her words like a sword.

Elia Martell gave her a solemn nod and opened her arms to her.

"The King has told me, my child."

Sansa went to her eagerly, falling to the floor, weeping. Her head resting on her legs, staining her delicate orange silk gown with her tears. Felt her tender hands running circles soothingly down her back.

"Aegon hid it very well for years, you see. When he began his lessons in statecraft, the ones I only allowed him to take, he did his very best to draw away from you. He knew his duty, my son. By then you were already so lovely, everyone could see the beauty you would become,” Elia mused. “How you would surpass your mother. How you would surpass Lady Margaery. And you were so sweet, so gentle in nature, so supporting. When Rhaenys became engaged I wanted to look for husbands for you. Willas or your Arryn cousin. Perhaps even Jaime, if I was able to convince him, and make you Lady of Casterly Rock, he was a handsome and kind man. I never saw my boy as fearsome as I did then. How he refused. How he raged. Against me, against the world. I didn’t agree with him marrying you to Jaeherys. But alas, he was King and by then there was nothing I could do to avoid the misery that has become of this family. That has followed you all."

"I will not do what the Queen has suggested," Sansa assured her, finally regaining control of her voice. “I would never betray you.”

“I know. No one ever thought you would. Nor would my son ever ask it of you, I trust you know that.”

Sansa couldn’t help but to nod.

"I have been a hostage – my whole life – by crimes not my own. I have been alone and forgotten in these halls. I have been made fatherless and motherless by Targaryens. My own family must barely remember my voice. My younger brothers do not even know my face. I could not bear to make myself that which I am paying another's price for."

"You are not motherless. Have I not been a mother to you? Have I failed you thus? You have paid the price for another, it's true.” Elia nodded to herself. “I understand if you would take the sin as well."

Sansa looked up in shock and Queen Elia smiled sadly, and patted Sansa on the hand.

“This is not encouragement, mind you. This is simply… I wish that you would know that I would still care for you, just as much. That I would not see you as I see…” Elia shook her head. “You are in an unhappy marriage. Margaery has asked you herself, after all. Her love for him is different than yours. Aegon has loved you his whole life, he took her as a wife because I bound him to it. My son will not take another. It will be you or it will be no one. I would not fault you, I would not condemn you in a choice all of you are free to make."

Sansa shook her head vehemently.

"I’m not free. I have never been. Margaery might still carry a child to term. We do not know the will of the gods. What would become of us all then? Would Aegon not drive himself mad with grief at having placed both of us in that position? Would not my shame swallow me whole? Would not Margaery fear me and my child? I will not risk a war for a heart I have not allowed myself to have. Neither will your son, that much I know. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t love him any other way,” Sansa confessed, throat filled with agony.

Elia nodded, as if she were relieved by her assertion of the circumstances. And she took a cold hand to Sansa’s chest.

“I have seared duty into both of your hearts, haven’t I?” she questioned in a voice heavy with tears.

"You must place some blame on me, I command it of you. I stepped away. When Rhaegar died…I felt… as if it could all be taken from us by the tiniest slip up. When the regency ended, when my son was firmly rooted upon that blasted throne, my Uncle Lewyn by his side, I... I needed to be in Dorne. I needed to be certain that it all had served a purpose. That I had protected not only my children but my home as well.”

She swallowed harshly, in an attempt to regain her voice.

“And when I returned, I needed to convince myself that this new court I walked into wasn't only a reflection of you.”

Sansa looked down in shame evading her eyes.

“That Rhaenys had some hand in it. I allowed myself too easily to be swayed by it when Margaery arrived. I could no longer deny it when they came to you when she was unwell. When the court so effortlessly switched between what should be asked of Margaery and what had to be asked of you. You will say it was my son, or Ser Lewyn, but I know you well. I raised you well, you could be my daughter in truth. I know you smoothed down her path. I know you eased her way in. In those small things Aegon wouldn't have taken notice of, but her house would have. I know you. How you walked the line between my court and Lyanna's. How you made sure the same wouldn't happen again, the offences against your pride you endured to became her favourite." 

Queen Elia took a finger under chin, commanding Sansa to raise her face, so she might look upon her.

“I’ve been so very proud of you.”

Sansa’s eyes filled with tears.

“It… It hurts to be here,” she whispered, her voice failing as she tried to contain her tears. “It hurt before… but now… that I understand everyone knew…”

Queen Elia nodded slowly.

“Do you want to leave, my dear? Dragonstone with Jon. Or a stay in Dorne, all by yourself. The sun of Dorne would do you well. Oberyn would make you laugh, and you would find Lady Cersei’s bite refreshing. Arianne would be a good friend to you. And you would enjoy playing cyvasse with my brother, Doran. My home would receive you with open arms and maybe there you would know freedom and a shred of peace,” Elia offered.

The doors opened suddenly, commanding their attention.

"Your Grace, Princess Sansa, – the Queen is dead."