Chapter Text
King's Landing was not the Capital of Westeros that Sansa had always dreamed it would be. In her mind it was a city scrubbed clean until it shone and sparkled in the sunlight, with roads and buildings beautifully and deliberately crafted, and the crisp bright smell of the ocean being perceivable from anywhere within the city's walls. There would be gallant princes who lived in their splendid towers and honorable and handsome knights ready to lend their hand to her at a moments' notice.
She was old enough to know better than to expect such a fantasy, but what she was presented with was a Kings' Landing that was dirty, uneven, half-formed, and smelled of rancid fish and waste from the first steps through the Gate of the Gods. Even the stables at Winterfell didn't smell so horrid as Kings' Landing upon first arrival.
Her Father led the way through the city; followed by her, Arya, Rickon, and her Father's men. She and Arya had spent a lot of their time traveling by wheelhouse but they had both wanted to see the city desperately and had chosen to ride in on horseback on the final day of travel. She had never regretted a decision so much as she had now and it seemed Arya was too with how her nose had scrunched up in disgust at what there was around them. Their Father sat solemn atop his horse as still as a stone pillar not given to sway, but Rickon winced and frowned beside him.
They had come down from the Kingsroad and even from outside the city they could see the Red Keep as it jutted upward on top of Aegon's High Hill. Her Father paid a young boy a copper Penny to speak of the city to them as they rode on. The boy stepped quickly beside her and Arya's palfreys and Rickon's pony.
“The West Barracks,” The little boy said, pointing off to the barracks for them, “Cobblers Square,” He said as they rode through the market. He pointed out little streets he knew the names of, and even pointed out to them where he lived when they had passed by it.
“The Great Sept,” He pointed to it when they came upon the point in their journey for the best view of it. The Sept was large, appearing even larger as it sat atop Visenya's Hill.
He pointed down a long street that led to the East, “The Street of Sisters, going up to the Dragon Pit!” They had moved on, and he pointed South down another street, “The Mud Gate is down there!”
The boy departed before the guards of the Red Keep were able to scoff at him and they were let through the gates into the Red Keep. They were met inside by the King himself, his smile as broad as he was. There was the royal family as well, all golden haired beauties. The Crown Prince Joffrey stood with his brown-haired wife Lady Margaery and their almost-blond son Prince Theodore. By them were the younger of the royals Princess Myrcella, just now fourteen, and Tommen just barely a year behind her. The Kingsguard stood at attention and among their number was the Queens' brother, Jaime Lannister who was as handsome as the stories had said of him.
The Queens' smile was strained when she met them and Margaerys' smile was dim and hollow compared to her beauty.
Behind Margaery was a man with a face that was half-scarred, Sandor Clegane. She had heard of him, mostly through Arya who knew the names and descriptions of all the fiercest warriors in Westeros. Their Mother certainly would never have allowed either of them to speak of warriors like him or his brother in polite company. Robb's wife Alys Karstark wasn't one to shy away from the tales though. With Mother and Septa Mordane they spoke of the tourneys, fawning over how lovely it must be and how lucky a girl would be to be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, while in more private company Arya regaled them with the news she had gathered of warriors and jousts and bloody melees to her, Alys, and Jeyne. She favored speaking of the previous, rather than the latter, but she was curious of as much information there was that Arya was willing to share.
Their Uncle Lord Arryn stood to greet them as well with his wife, her Aunt Lysa, and their son Robert Arryn. She could scarcely believe that the small boy was already twelve when he was about the same size as Rickon who was three years behind him. Her Aunt and cousin looked to have wanted to be there less than Queen Cersei did.
They bowed and curtsied to the King and the Royal Family, which the King huffed and grumbled over. In mere moments it went from what they were used to – severe and somber – to jovial with her Father and the King laughing between themselves.
“It's good to see you again,” Lord Arryn said as he embraced her Father. He turned his attention to her and Arya and Rickon, “Your children are handsome, don't you think Your Grace?” He mentioned to King Robert who had embraced her Father just after Lord Arryn..
“Very handsome,” King Robert boomed with a chuckle after he and Father had exchanged greetings, “A wonder why the older one hasn't been married off yet, Ned?”
“The girl is only thirteen,” Her Aunt complained.
Her Father seemed struck speechless, as Lord Arryn had. She wondered if she looked thirteen still, but her Mother and others had complimented that she was a woman grown with the looks to match. “I'm Seventeen Aunt Lysa.”
“Then I must be thinking of the younger one.” She replied.
It was true that Arya was still shorter than she was - Sansa had grown to be tall for a lady while Arya was still much shorter, but Arya was not as flat-chested anymore and didn't look quite so much like a boy as she used to. She still acted like one most of the time but that wasn't the point. Arya scowled, “I'm fifteen, Aunt Lysa.”
Lady Arryn shrugged.
“Bran is thirteen,” She offered. Bran had begun his training as a Maester in Old Town a year ago, and once he was done with his schooling there and after Maester Luwin passed on he would return to Winterfell and be Father's Maester, then Robb's in time. She thought it was nice that Bran would have the ability to stay so close with their family for she knew that she and Arya would and could not be so lucky. When they did marry they would go to their husbands' lands and the North was a long way away from the rest of Westeros. If she was able to marry, at least.
“Maybe so.” Aunt Lysa replied off-handedly, seeming to have not heard her and no longer interested in the conversation.
At least the Queen, despite not wanting to be out in the courtyard of the Red Keep and squinting against the sun, had greeted her and told her that she looked a lovely young lady blandly and how it was a shame that she hadn't been married yet.
It would have been difficult to explain that all of her betrothals had been 'cursed'. That no matter what young Lord or Ser she was engaged to - they died or were maimed or changed their minds after a number of weeks. She simply agreed with the Queen.
It was Rickons' turn to be made a fuss over as he was a growing boy and a handsome one at that. He smiled and preened and was on his best behavior, even though she and Arya and Father all knew what a wild boy he normally was. Where Bran had mellowed from his climbing as he grew, Rickon had grown even more wild. It was wanderlust, Uncle Benjen had said once.
Their Father was whisked away by King Robert and Lord Arryn, but whether it was to talk of a hunt or of personal matters or of matters of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa did not know. With them went most of the Kingsguard. Queen Cersei, Princess Myrcella, and Prince Tommen did not stay long in their presence, and Prince Joffrey left with a huff leaving behind his wife without sparing her a glance. The rest of the Kingsguard had splintered off to follow the rest of the royal family. She had thought that at least their Aunt Lysa would have stayed behind to welcome them more properly but she took little Robert Arryn and left quickly. The duty fell to Lady Margaery, who approached them with her son Theodore at her side and their sworn shield Sandor Clegane just behind her.
Lady Margaery was much less tense now that the others had gone, as she quietly smiled and gently asked them if they would come and have lunch with her in the gardens. Sansa was starving, so she could only imagine how much Arya and Rickon would have complained had they not been in the company of someone else. They accepted and began their stroll through the Red Keep. She stayed close-by to Jeyne as they marveled at the huge Keep around them.
“The gardens are lovely,” Lady Margaery said, “They were extravagant before I'd come, but my Father gifted several hundred rose bushes of all my favorite types to be planted here when I was married.”
“It is very lovely,” She replied as they walked through, “Though, I can't tell roses much apart beside the colors.”
Lady Margaery smiled further as they came upon a table on a terrace of cobblestones, shaded from the sun by creeping roses that dangled and loomed over them prettily. They were in such a location as to have an unobstructed view of Blackwater Bay over the sea walls of the Red Keep. Sandor Clegane called for a servant to bring about a lunch and took up his post in watching over his charges nearby.
“My favorites are Honeywine Gold. They have a longer stem, shorter sepals, and a stronger fragrance than a lot of the others. Their thorns are sharper, too.” She gestured over to some gold colored roses that were nearby their table, “I had always thought growing up that it was a shame that their thorns were so sharp, but now that I'm a little older I realize that it's for good reason.”
Theodore toddled around and Rickon sat on the stone ground to play with him. Arya was staring boredly out towards the sea. She and Jeyne sat across from Margaery, but Jeyne had just overcome an illness that had struck her on their journey and she had not regained her strength enough to hold a conversation. It really was just her and Margaery.
“Oh?” She asked, “I suppose... so that no one will pluck them?”
“Yes.” Margaerys' smile grew only when she looked towards her beloved roses, “Not just anyone can pluck them. I admire that they can defend themselves so well.”
The implication hung in the air, it was upon a fading bruise on her lips, but it was not spoken. Their food had come soon after, more lavish than she had been expecting a lunch to be. Lady Margaery arranged three plates; one for herself, a smaller portioned one for Theodore, and a plate that she took to where Sandor Clegane was seated, watching them. When she returned to her seat she pulled Theodore up into her lap to eat.
“So why's he here?” Arya asked bluntly, pointing rudely over to Sandor Clegane.
She began to choke, but if she hadn't been choking she would have told Arya that she was being very rude and shouldn't speak like that. If she hadn't known better she would have thought that Arya was disturbed by his presence but memories the excited tales of savage tourney wins pouring from her lips behind closed doors told Sansa otherwise. Arya wanted to see all the warriors that King's Landing had to offer and Sansa wondered if she was disappointed to see him in such a domestic setting.
Lady Margaery replied gently, but just as to the point; “Clegane is Theodore's sworn shield. He's been the sworn shield of every heir and their mother since Cersei first became Queen.”
“Must be boring.” Arya scoffed.
She kicked her sister under the table. Arya glared at her and she gave her a stern look back.
They ate in relative quietness, what little conversation they had consisted mostly of smalltalk. They spoke of their uneventful trip down from Winterfell and Margaery spoke of uneventful happenings in court. They laughed together when it was agreed between them that nothing they had to speak of was very exciting to talk about.
They went their separate ways after lunch and a servant showed her, Arya, Jeyne, and Rickon to their rooms where they were to be staying as guests of the royal family. They had to go through their Fathers' guest study to get to their bedchambers which Arya complained loudly about. The individual bedchambers were much smaller than at Winterfell, but she didn't have to share a room with Arya which pleased her and Jeyne greatly.
Only just before they had made the travel down to King's Landing had Jeyne's betrothal fallen apart, her husband-to-be breaking the engagement to marry a woman of higher position and wealth. While Sansa was confused and angry for her friend she was secretly glad that Jeyne was with her and that she was not the only one with broken engagements.
Things were not all bad for Jeyne though, as her Father had begun to train her years ago in the ways of the Steward in hopes that some day she would be Steward for Robb. In secret she had promised Jeyne that if the fates aligned and she would finally be married she would suggest to her new husband that Jeyne be his Steward. If there was no position available then she would have suggested that Jeyne come to be her companion. She couldn't even stand the thought of Jeyne becoming a destitute old maid. She hoped that neither of them would come to that but knew that if it did they would have a place in Winterfell and would have the company of each other.
Fresh water was brought so that they could wash and she immediately changed into a clean dress. She didn't know how Lady Margaery had managed to stand them when they smelled of horse and were covered in dust from the road.
Her thoughts turned toward Lady Margaery as she sat upon her bed to feel how comfy it was. She had heard from news of tourneys and weddings and other nice things that Lady Margaery was truly the Queen of Love and Beauty, that she could smile and it seemed as though the whole world smiled. The Lady Margaery that she had met was quite different to what she had heard of. Still a Queen of Love and Beauty, but timid and quiet with empty smiles.
Lord Baelish came to see her and she was initially pleased to be seen with some importance and to be made a fuss over. He smiled large enough that the crows' feet around his eyes crinkled and he kissed her hand.
"What a joy it is to have you here, My Lady." He said.
"Thank you, My Lord. The Red Keep is lovely, as are the gardens."
"They are, aren't they?" He replied, "Not half as lovely as you, my dear."
"You're too kind, My Lord."
"Please, call me Petyr." He said and she faltered, and he saw that but he only smiled, "You look just like your Mother when she was young. I grew up with her in Riverrun, you know."
"She had told me," She answered, "She had always wondered why you had never married."
He kissed her hand again, looking at her through his lashes, "Perhaps someday soon?"
She strained a smile, "Perhaps you will find the right Lady."
"Perhaps, Cat." He whispered quietly enough that she almost didn't hear him.
Her stomach turned and she wished to draw her hand away from him and away from his lips but she was a Lady and her Mother would surely think less of her if she were to do something so unladylike. He kissed her hand again and told her that he would see her soon and he could not leave fast enough for her taste.
She and Jeyne would go to the Red Keeps' Sept most mornings, in the pre-light of dawn. It was then that she was reminded more of Winterfell than anytime else, as the grey light caused the red stones to darken to an almost color-less shade and the air bit with just a hint of cold. She found that she missed the cool crisp air of the North and how if felt in her lungs. They didn't have that here, even the late night and early morning coolness was nothing compared to even the summers of the North.
Her Father and Lord Arryn were usually awake around the time that she and Jeyne were but often they did not cross paths. There were only a few servants awake and going about their early morning duties, and the Kingsguard, Gold Cloaks, and Red Cloaks were changing shifts.
After the two of them had spent a small amount of time praying, they enjoyed a walk around the grounds and ramparts. The gardens she saw every day so it was nice to explore a little bit more of the castle while she was not with Lady Margaery. But one thing that they enjoyed was their spot above the training yard. Arya had found it and had realized that from that vantage point they could see the mock fighting while those on the ground could not see them.
She wrote to Alys, telling her the tales that she loved just as Arya. The bold men who trained with fierceness and there was none so fierce as Sandor Clegane.