Ser Allar Oakheart escorted Sansa Stark through the winding corridors of Maegor's Holdfast.
The girl walked quietly beside him, her blue dress flowing softly with each step. She looked every bit the noble lady—graceful, poised, and beautiful—yet beneath that fragile elegance lay the reality of her situation.
She was a prisoner.
A hostage dressed in silk.
At only twelve years old, Sansa already possessed a striking beauty. Her delicate cheekbones, clear blue eyes, and thick auburn hair reflected her Tully heritage more than her Stark blood. When she grew older, she would undoubtedly become a tall, graceful woman, admired by many.
But now—
She was trapped in a cage of gold.
"I'm sorry, Miss Sansa," Ser Allar said quietly when the hallway emptied.
His voice was low, almost hesitant.
"I know… this is not what a knight should be. But we serve the King. We do not judge him."
Sansa immediately inclined her head.
"Thank you, Ser."
And she meant it.
Compared to the others, Ser Allar was gentle.
If it had been Ser Boros or Ser Meryn, the beating she had just endured would have been far worse.
She had learned quickly—
Kindness, even in small amounts, was something to cherish here.
Sansa's thoughts drifted.
Knights were supposed to protect the weak.
To defend women.
To uphold justice.
But the men she saw now—
Did none of those things.
"I fear things may become harder for you," Ser Allar continued in a whisper.
Sansa looked up slightly.
"Stormbreaker has already won three victories," he said. "And Lord Tywin remains at Harrenhal, unwilling to advance. The Queen Dowager is furious."
Sansa quietly repeated the name in her mind.
Stormbreaker…
The name had spread through the castle like wildfire.
Rumors painted him as a terrifying figure.
"The servants say he's enormous," Sansa said softly. "Seven or eight feet tall. As cruel as the Mountain… devouring half a cow in a single meal."
Ser Allar let out a faint chuckle.
"Stories grow in the telling. But one thing is certain—he's dangerous."
His tone turned serious.
"You must never speak his name openly. It could bring you harm."
Sansa nodded.
She understood.
Every word here could become a weapon.
She missed her family.
Her father.
Her brothers.
Her home.
Everyone believed her father was dead.
So she pretended to believe it too.
The Queen Dowager's kindness was a mask.
Joffrey—
He was no prince from the songs.
He was something else entirely.
Will someone come for me?
The storm? Or the wolves of the North?
Sansa wondered silently.
She clung to the hope that someone—anyone—would save her.
Like the knights in the stories she once loved.
When they reached her chambers, the maids hurried forward.
They spoke softly, offering comfort as they helped her wash and change. Warm water soothed her aching body, though the bruises remained.
Later, a maester would come to examine her injuries.
Everything was routine.
Even suffering had become routine.
That evening, Sansa stood by the window.
Above King's Landing, the red comet blazed across the sky.
It looked like a blood-stained sword cutting through the heavens.
Once—
She would have thought it beautiful.
Now—
It felt like an omen.
"I am a Stark," she whispered to herself.
"This is not my home."
"Joffrey is not my prince."
She clenched her hands.
Wolves survived.
Even in the harshest winters.
And so would she.
Elsewhere, in a luxurious brothel in King's Landing—
Petyr Baelish sat in a private chamber, dressed in fine rose and plum-colored garments. His cloak, embroidered with mockingbirds, draped elegantly over his shoulders.
Across from him stood Rosso Brenn, his silent and formidable guard.
"You saw it yourself?" Littlefinger asked, swirling wine in his cup.
Rosso nodded.
"Everyone saw it. The courtyard… the King's cruelty. That fool Thorys nearly died."
Littlefinger smiled faintly.
"And the girl?"
"Brave," Rosso replied simply. "She pleaded for him."
Littlefinger's eyes gleamed.
"Interesting."
He stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"A woman's face is her first weapon… and she has her mother's charm."
Rosso remained silent.
"Prepare information on ships heading to the Vale," Littlefinger ordered.
"Our position here is… unstable."
Rosso nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
After Rosso left, Littlefinger leaned back in his chair.
"King's Landing…" he murmured.
"A city of smiling daggers."
He knew his place here was fragile.
The Master of Coin.
A man who counted gold.
But gold alone did not guarantee loyalty.
"The Imp… The Hound… Ser Allar… even that fool Thorys…"
Littlefinger tapped his fingers lightly.
"All drawn to the same girl."
He smiled.
"A useful piece."
But he was cautious.
Varys would not ignore such an opportunity.
And Littlefinger knew better than to clash directly with the Spider.
"No… patience," he whispered.
"Wait… and watch."
Meanwhile—
In the Tower of the Hand—
Tyrion Lannister hosted a private dinner.
Across from him sat Varys, the Master of Whisperers, dressed in soft lavender robes.
The table was filled with exquisite dishes—
Roasted lamb and carrot soup.
Fresh vegetables mixed with nuts and cheese.
Spiced fish and tender quail.
Each paired perfectly with fine wine.
"Welcome, my friend," Tyrion said with a grin.
Varys chuckled.
"A feast worthy of a king. Lord Eddard was never so generous."
"That's why my head remains attached to my body," Tyrion replied dryly.
They both laughed.
"Tell me," Tyrion continued, swirling his wine. "How many know?"
Varys answered calmly.
"Myself. Littlefinger. Your sister. And the Grand Maester."
Tyrion nodded.
"Good."
He leaned forward slightly.
"The girl—Sansa. Joffrey still has her beaten."
Varys sighed.
"The King does not listen."
Tyrion frowned.
"If we want the North to hate us less, we should show restraint."
"Perhaps," Varys said. "But cruelty is… entertaining to him."
Tyrion shook his head.
"I'll deal with him later."
Then he smirked slightly.
"Tell me—how does one calm an unruly boy king?"
Varys smiled knowingly.
"Women."
Tyrion blinked.
"…Of course."
The conversation shifted.
"To the Gold Cloaks," Tyrion said.
"The city watch is key."
Varys nodded.
"Janos Slynt is corrupt. Greedy. Weak."
"Then I need someone better."
Varys smiled.
"Ser Jacelyn Bywater."
Tyrion's eyes lit up.
"Excellent."
A one-handed man.
But strong.
Honorable.
Exactly what he needed.
"The Wall," Tyrion muttered.
"A fitting place for Janos."
He took another sip of wine.
The game was becoming clearer.
Power in King's Landing depended on one thing—
Control of the army.
"Tell me, Varys," Tyrion said slowly.
"How does one make allies?"
Varys smiled.
"With kindness."
Tyrion laughed.
"No… with gifts."
His eyes gleamed.
"Gifts more valuable than gold."
He thought of Joffrey.
Tommen.
Myrcella.
Children—
But also political tools.
Marriage.
Alliances.
Leverage.
Tyrion sighed softly.
"War makes monsters of us all."
But he raised his cup anyway.
Because in this game—
There was no choice.
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