It had been five days since her father had been wounded in the streets.
The Red Keep did not feel the same now. The halls were just as grand as ever, the walls bright with banners and gilded sconces, yet something had changed in the air. The courtiers spoke more softly when they passed, and the servants glanced at one another as if they shared some secret Sansa was not meant to hear
They said Lord Stark had been injured in a quarrel with the Lannisters. Some even whispered that he had been coming from a brothel when the fighting began. Sansa did not believe that. Her father was not like the king, who drank too much wine and laughed too loudly and filled the castle with hunting tales and talk of women. Father was stern and honorable. He would not creep into some foul house of sin like a common sellsword.
Fat Tom had told Jory's men that Lord Stark had been visiting one of the king's bastards there. Sansa had overheard it while passing through the tower stair. After hearing that she had felt certain of it. Father would not go to a brothel for a whore. He went to take care of the King's bastards for he had a bastard of his own, after all.
Sansa sat beside the window of her chamber, her sewing forgotten in her lap. The afternoon light spilled across the stone floor and turned the red silk thread in her needle to fire.
At Winterfell the servants had whispered about Jon often enough. They said his mother had been Lady Ashara Dayne, the most beautiful woman of her time, with eyes like deep purple pools. Some said she had thrown herself from a tower in grief after Lord Stark took the child from her arms.
Sansa did not know if it was true. Servants loved stories, and Septa Mordane had often warned her against listening to idle gossip. Still… sometimes she wondered. If Father had left Jon with his mother, perhaps the lady might have lived. And Mother would have been happier too, with the bastard far away. That was how queens did things. Everyone knew it.
King Robert had bastards scattered across the realm. She had heard there was one in the Vale, fostered with Lord Arryn's bannermen, and another in Storm's End. No one spoke of them openly, but the court always seemed to know such things.
She wondered if Joffrey would ever be like that. No, she told herself firmly. Joffrey was different. He was her golden lion, brave and gallant. When they were wed he would love her and her alone. His heart would belong to her, as the songs said it should.
Her thoughts broke apart at the sound of a knock upon her door.
"Sansa, my dear, are you inside? May I come in?" Septa Mordane's voice came through.
Sansa rose quickly and smoothed the skirts of her gown before answering. "Yes, septa, I'm here."
The door opened with a soft creak, and Septa Mordane stepped inside, her round face flushed from the climb up the tower steps. The crystal pendant at her throat caught the light and gleamed. Sansa noticed at once the dark circles beneath the septa's eyes. They had deepened over the past few days, like faint bruises upon her pale skin.
The septa had not been sleeping well. None of them had, in truth.
Since her father's injury the tower had grown quiet and uneasy, even Jeyne had not been her usual cheerful self. Arya had shut herself away almost entirely, speaking to no one save Arthur, or so Jeyne claimed. Septa Mordane worried over that as much as she worried over Sansa.
"There you are," she said, casting a quick look about the chamber. "I was beginning to wonder if you had wandered off to the gardens again."
Sansa offered a small smile. "No, septa."
"Did you fall asleep over your stitching again?" the septa asked, Her eyes moved at once to the abandoned needlework on the chair.
Sansa colored faintly and gathered the cloth into her hands. "I was only thinking, septa."
"Thinking about what, child?" Septa Mordane sighed and came closer. "You must not neglect your lessons simply because your father is unwell. A young lady's duties do not vanish when troubles arise."
"I know," Sansa said dutifully. For a moment she hesitated, then asked, "Has there been any word of my father today?"
Septa Mordane's expression softened, though she pursed her lips before answering. "Grand Maester Pycelle says Lord Stark is resting comfortably. His leg was badly broken, but he is strong. And the maesters believe with the gods' graces he will mend with time."
Sansa clutched her needle a little tighter. "I would like to visit him," she said.
"And you shall, when the maester allows it," the septa replied gently. "For now you must be patient."
"Very well," Sansa replied, reluctantly.
The septa folded her hands within her sleeves and regarded Sansa with gentle concern. "The lady Margaery Tyrell, has requested to have luncheon with you today. Do you wish to go, child?" she asked.
There was a note of uncertainty in her voice, as though she feared Sansa might refuse. Lady Margaery had shown a curious fondness for Arya since the Starks had come south, and with Father wounded and the castle full of whispers, the septa may well have thought Sansa would rather remain in her chamber.
"I would," Sansa answered at once. "I hope I will be a pleasant company."
Lady Margaery was everything a lady ought to be, beautiful, gracious, and charming besides. When she smiled the whole room seemed to brighten. Sansa had watched her often at court, noting how easily she spoke with knights and ladies alike. If she could become Lady Margaery's friend, it would make life in King's Landing much easier. Mother and Septa Mordane would also approve of this friendship.
Besides, Margaery was kind to Arya, though Sansa could not imagine why. Arya had never cared for proper company. Most like the Tyrell girl pitied her, thinking she had no friends.
Septa Mordane's worried expression softened. "I'm glad, my dear," she said. "I think it will be good for you."
Sansa smiled, relieved to see the septa pleased. "Can I take Jeyne with me?"
"Of course, child," Septa Mordane replied at once. "I will escort you both."
That was well enough. Jeyne would chatter nervously the whole way, but Sansa did not mind. It was better than walking through the castle corridors alone while everyone stared.
"What of Arya, did lady Margaery invite her too?" Sansa asked curiously.
Septa Mordane sighed, and the faintest frown creased her brow. "She did, but your sister refused."
"Refused?" Sansa blinked and asked.
Septa Mordane sighed, "She said she doesn't have any interest in lemon cakes and giggling girls."
Sansa replied, "We should tell Lady Margaery Arya was simply feeling unwell."
Septa Mordane nodded approvingly, "It would be for the best."
Arya had never understood how to behave among proper ladies. She would sooner spend the afternoon in the yard with stableboys than at a table with cakes and tea. Sansa could already imagine how she might have scowled when the invitation was brought.
Still, she was glad that Arya had refused. She would have ruined the afternoon with her scowls and sharp tongue, speaking of swords and mud while Lady Margaery tried to be gracious.
"It is a pity, she could not come." Sansa said politely.
"Yes," the septa replied, though her tone suggested she did not entirely agree. She stepped closer, brushing a stray curl from Sansa's shoulder and smoothing the fabric of her sleeve. "You should change your gown before we go. Something suitable for a lady's luncheon."
Perhaps blue or grey silk, she thought, mother always favored soft colors. If she looked her best, the Tyrell girl might see that she too could be graceful and pleasant company.
"I will." Sansa nodded."Where is Arya then?" she asked.
"She has gone to her dancing lessons," Septa Mordane replied, her lips tightening. "I wish your lord father would have listened to me and not allowed such unruly behavior. It is unseemly for a noble lady to wield weapons."
Sansa knew well enough what the septa meant. Syrio Forel had been teaching Arya her strange form of "dancing" in the yard below the Tower of the Hand. Jeyne had seen it once and returned wide-eyed with tales of Arya slashing about with a wooden sword while the Braavosi shouted curious things in a singsong voice. It sounded dreadfully improper.
Still, Sansa kept her tone gentle. "She may grow out of it one day, Septa."
The septa did not seem convinced. "Unlikely, with Lady Wylla Manderly becoming her friend." she said with a sniff, "I sometimes wonder how she became such a wild thing. The fault must lie with her mother."
Lady Wylla had become a subject of much talk at court these past days. The Manderlys do seem to have a taste for attention, she thought.
Sansa had watched the moment herself from the gallery. The crowd had roared in surprise when Wylla Manderly loosed her final arrow and struck the center of the target clean through. Some had laughed, some cheered, and some frowned as though they had bitten into sour fruit.
A lady winning a contest meant for knights was not the sort of tale Septa Mordane approved of. Neither did Arthur it seemed. She remembered the look Arthur had given his cousin afterward. It had been only a moment, but there had been displeasure in it, plain enough for any who knew him well.
"A lady should concern herself with needlework, music, and the management of a household," the septa went on. "Not bows and blades. It encourages the wrong sort of talk."
"Yes, Septa," Sansa said dutifully.
The septa seemed satisfied by that, at least. "Let's hurry, it would not be good manners to keep Lady Margaery waiting."
"Of course." Sansa rose and crossed to the carved chest where her gowns were kept.
A Tyrell servant led them down a winding path of pale stone toward the gardens that lay behind the Great Sept. The air smelled of warm earth and crushed herbs where the gardeners had been at work. Bees drifted lazily among the late summer blossoms, and somewhere beyond the hedges a fountain murmured softly.
Sansa walked beside Jeyne Poole while Septa Mordane followed a pace behind them, her hands folded within her sleeves. Guards came as well, two from her father's household and two more in the colors of White Harbor. Arthur had insisted upon it. Several guards from his household now guarded the tower.
Arthur was the one who came to see them the day her father was hurt. It was from him that they first learned the truth of what had happened in the streets.
Since that day he had come often. Each afternoon, or sometimes in the evening, Arthur would appear with some quiet jest or story meant to ease their worry. He spoke gently with Septa Mordane, played with Arya, teased Jeyne out of her tears, and sat with Sansa by the window where the light was best. Sansa had been courteous with him, as was proper, yet she could not deny that she looked forward to those visits.
They spoke of many things, of Winterfell, of the gardens of White Harbor, of the singers who wandered the courts of the south. Sometimes they even prayed together for her father's recovery. But most often they painted.
The servant led them around a flowering hedge, and the Tyrell party came suddenly into view. Tables and chairs had been arranged beneath a cluster of elm trees where the shade was cool and dappled with sunlight. Platters of fruit and sweet cakes sat upon the table, alongside a pitcher of watered wine and a tray of lemon cakes dusted with sugar.
Lady Margaery sat at the center of it all like the queen of a little court, surrounded by several cousins and companions. She wore a gown of deep green silk embroidered with golden roses that caught the light when she moved. The bodice was cut lower than most northern ladies favored, leaving her shoulders bare. It was showing the curves of her bosom and the pale skin at her collarbone. Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm at once.
Mother would never allow such a gown, she thought. Lady Catelyn preferred her daughters modestly dressed, with high collars and sleeves. To appear so boldly arrayed before half the court would surely earn a sharp word.
Yet the gown suited Lady Margaery very well. She looked radiant seated there among the flowers, her brown curls tumbling loose about her shoulders like a crown of soft gold.
Before Sansa could gather herself, Margaery rose and came lightly across the grass toward her.
"My lady," she said warmly, placing her hands upon Sansa's arms, "how lovely you look. The blue looks regal on your person, doesn't it?" she asked, glancing back toward her cousins.
The other girls nodded at once, smiling and murmuring together. "Absolutely magnificent."
Sansa felt her face grow warmer still.
Margaery's smile widened. "Can we expect anything less from our future queen?"
The words made Sansa blush deeply. For a moment she did not know what to say.
"Thank you, my lady," she managed at last, lowering her eyes modestly. "You honor me with your words and your graciousness."
She had chosen the blue silk gown in the end as the color had brought out her eyes. A silver direwolf had been stitched neatly across the bodice, its thread catching the light whenever she moved. The sleeves were long and modest, and the dress covered her from throat to wrist.
Compared with the bold fashions of the southern ladies, it felt almost plain. Too dull for court, Sansa thought uneasily. Yet none of the Tyrell girls seemed to think so. They regarded her with bright smiles and approving looks, which eased her worry somewhat.
Margaery took her hand and guided her toward the table. "Come sit with us. I have been looking forward to this all morning."
"Thank you for inviting me, my lady," she said politely, courtesying as she had been taught. "It is very gracious of you."
Margaery said beaming, "We are pleased that you could join us."
Jeyne hovered beside Sansa, wide-eyed at the sight of so many finely dressed ladies.
"And you have brought a friend," Margaery said kindly, turning her bright gaze toward Jeyne. "You are most welcome as well."
Jeyne replied nervously. "Th-thank you, my lady."
Margaery began introducing her cousins one by one. There were several of them, all finely dressed in soft colors, pale gold, rose, and sky blue, with ribbons in their hair and little golden roses pinned to their sleeves.
"This is my cousin Elinor," Margaery said, indicating a tall girl with dark curls and lively eyes. "And here is Megga, and Alla as well."
Each greeted Sansa with a polite curtsey and a warm smile. Sansa returned the courtesies as best she could. Court manners came easily to her, though her heart fluttered a little all the same.
When the introductions were finished, she gestured toward Jeyne. "This is my friend, Jeyne Poole," she said.
Jeyne bobbed a hurried curtsey, her hands twisting nervously in her skirts. "It is an honor to meet you, my ladies."
The Tyrell girls welcomed her kindly enough, though Sansa could see Jeyne's nervousness plainly. She sat stiffly in her chair, glancing about as if afraid she might do something wrong.
Sansa could not blame her. Even she felt a little uncertain among these graceful southern ladies.
Yet the unease faded quickly enough. The lemon cakes were warm and sweet, so soft that it melted on the tongue, and the talk turned soon enough to harmless gossip. One of the cousins spoke of a singer newly arrived from Lys who had set half the court sighing over his songs. Another told a tale of a knight who had fainted during the last feast after too much strongwine.
Sansa found herself laughing before she quite realized it. Margaery proved as friendly as she was beautiful. She spoke with warmth and ease, drawing Sansa into the conversation as though they had known one another for years rather than days. The Tyrell girls listened with bright interest when Sansa spoke of Winterfell and the godswood there, asking questions about snow and wolves and the long northern winters
The luncheon itself was splendid. Platters of fruit, sweet pastries, honeyed ham, and soft cheeses filled the table. The Tyrells had spared no expense, and Sansa felt strangely honored to be their guest.
As the meal wore on, Margaery's expression softened and she leaned a little closer.
"It is a shame what happened to Lord Stark and his men," she said gently. "How is he doing?"
Sansa's smile faded. She lowered her gaze to the crumbs upon her plate.
"He is still asleep," she said softly, feeling her throat tighten. "The maesters say he will wake soon but they aren't certain if his leg will be completely healed."
The words made her eyes sting, though she tried not to show it.
"The maesters aren't gods, Sansa," Margaery said kindly. "I shall pray for his swift recovery at the sept before we leave."
Sansa looked up in surprise. "You are going back to Highgarden?"
Margaery smiled. "Yes, my adventures at the capital have come to an end. But I promise to visit again for your wedding."
At that Sansa felt the color rush to her cheeks. Her wedding. The very thought filled her mind with bright images, golden banners, shining knights, and Joffrey standing beside her in cloth-of-gold as the court looked on.
How splendid it will be, she thought, her heart fluttering.
"When do you leave?" Sansa asked.
"We start the day after tomorrow," Margaery replied. "Father has some business to take care of with Lord Renly."
Sansa wondered what sort of business they had. Lord Renly seemed too familiar with the Tyrells. She heard that Ser Loras had been his squire at Storm's end, and they were near inseparable even now, almost joined at the hip.
Margaery took a sip of wine before continuing. "You must come to Highgarden, Sansa, when your father is well enough to travel. It is a very beautiful place," She laughed brightly and added. "Though I can be a bit partial towards it. After all, it is my home."
Sansa pictured it as she had heard it described, broad green fields, marble fountains, and gardens that bloomed all year long beneath the southern sun. "I would like that very much," she said with a smile.
The thought of visiting such a place seemed almost like stepping into one of the songs she loved. For a moment she forgot the whispers in the castle and the fear that had shadowed her these past days. Here beneath the elm trees, with cakes and laughter, the world felt almost bright again.
When the last of the lemon cakes had been eaten and the servants began clearing the table, Lady Margaery rose lightly to her feet. "The garden is far too lovely to sit indoors all afternoon," she declared. "Come, Sansa, you must walk with me."
They left the tables together, strolling along the winding paths between beds of late-blooming flowers. The grass was soft beneath their slippers, and the warm afternoon sun fell gently through the leaves overhead. Bees hummed lazily among the blossoms, and the quiet splash of a fountain sounded somewhere nearby.
The others followed behind them, Margaery's cousins, Jeyne, and Septa Mordane walking with measured steps while the guards kept a discreet distance.
Margaery seemed too interested in the North. As they walked she asked Sansa question after question about her home. "Is it truly as cold as the singers say?" she asked. "Do the snows reach the windows of the castle?"
"Sometimes," Sansa admitted with a small smile. "But the godswood is very beautiful when it snows. The branches of the heart tree turn white, and the pools freeze so smooth you can see the clouds in the ice."
Margaery spoke of her brothers then, Willas, Garlan and Loras. They all seemed too wonderful much like Sansa's own. She told her about Robb's bravery, Bran's climbing and Rickon's mischief, and even a little of Arya, though she left out the parts that might make her sister sound too wild.
Sansa hadn't said anything of Jon to her, he was at the Wall anyway, Margaery would never meet him.
Margaery listened to everything with bright interest, laughing at the right moments and sighing softly at the stories of snowy forests and northern feasts. Sansa liked her very much.
Robb would like her too, she thought suddenly. Margaery was beautiful and kind and clever besides. If Father were to betroth Robb to her, they might become sisters one day. The thought pleased her greatly.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Enjoying the story? You can read chapters ahead of everyone else and support the story on Patreon. The story is up to chapter Sixty-Eight on Patreon.
patreon(dot)com/KSR_TBP
Replace the (Dot) with a .
Also come hang out on Discord: discord.gg/6NgMrAFBK