( Sansa POV )
Besides the occasional braying of the mules, the sounds of hooves and feet on dirt, and the whispers of the wind, the journey west from the Eyrie so far had been unsettlingly quiet.
Had she been misled? Were not these peaks thick with mountain clans, mountain lions, and wild bears? So far all she had seen was a smattering of mangy goats, lazily chewing on the few tufts of grass that dared poke through the thin sheen of snow that had settled over the past few days atop the peaks and cliffs.
And so they went, moving as one large mass of steel and men, Lord Nestor still glowering bitter at the helm. Sansa avoided him as best she could. She was sure he wouldn't hurt her, but she had been wrong before. And so instead she stayed near the middle of the pack the entire way along, eyeing the back of Lord Nestor's head, occasionally exchanging thoughts with Lothor Brune out of boredom as she went.
Nothing of substance, of course - she dared not speak her mind with all the Vale knights around. Brave men, to be sure - they had already repelled a small band of bandits that had struck on the second day of their journey - but brave men with loose tongues, and an affinity for lordly bronze.
Or perhaps even royal gold.
And so she rode her mule, feeling it slowly rubbing her thighs raw as they wound their way slowly though the peaks, descending inch by inch to the coastline. The sea, when they first saw it, was calm and pristine, tiny little waves gently rocking the ship in port.
They all dismounted their mules with gusto, taking a night to bathe and rest from the road, and then they were aboard the Merling King and away.
Sansa could swear that the moment land slipped from sight, the storm started.
The wind blowing fierce and true, rain pelting the deck, men screaming to take down the sails. Sansa sat huddled away from it all in the darkness of her cabin, feeling vaguely sick as the floor beneath her rocked and rolled from side to side. And for the first time since she had seen his head come off, Petyr returned to haunt her.
She saw his box - the little lidded basket that seemed perfectly sized. Nestor had kept it hidden from her till now. She saw the clasp at the front, and felt the irresistible urge to flick it open and take a look inside at her former father. At the man she had killed.
Instead, Sansa pulled close a bucket from the corner and turned up her guts into it. And there she sat for the rest of the night, listening to Petyr whisper to her from inside the basket draped with shadows, huddling a bucket of her own vomit for comfort. They found her like that the next morning, red eyes staring, her muscles stiff, her back sore, her dress ruined.
"M'lady?" Lothor asked, eyes slanted with concern.
Sansa patted the bucket, shook her head. "I'm well enough, ser. Just give me a moment."
Lothor lingered a second, watching her gaze. He seemed hesitant a moment, then said: "It doesn't do to dwell on it, m'lady. Most men lose their stomach their first kill. The feeling will pass, given time."
Sansa kept her peace, stared sullenly at the basket.
Lothor nodded and backed away from the door of the cabin. Sansa sat a few moments longer, then pushed her bucket away - its content sloshing dangerously close to the rim - and slowly gathered herself. In spite herself, she continued eyeing the basket, frozen in place as she rose to her feet. But it was not guilt that held her still now, but rage. You only wanted to rape me, she told the basket, to use me for your own advancement. You never cared.
Yet even as she turned away with a scowl etched into her face, Sansa knew it wasn't quite true. Petyr had cared. In his own twisted way, perhaps, but he cared.
And now she had nobody.
No, Sansa told herself, you have Arya. Your sister.
If she's still alive, that is.
The rest of the journey, Sansa avoided that cabin. She changed her dress, watched Lothor empty out the contents of her bucket, and every time her mind began to wander, she tried to cast her thoughts elsewhere. Days passed with her observing the hurried workings of the ship's Braavosi crew. She ate what little she could stomach in silence - despite Lothor's meagre attempts to distract and amuse her - thinking only of Arya. She watched the coastline lazily drift past from the deck. Watched the waves of the sea grow and shrink, at one point threatening another storm before retreating back into calm. Watched the clouds above darken twice with drizzle.
Before long, they had passed the Bay of Crabs and Cracklaw Point, and off in the distance Sansa sighted the dark spires and ghoulish stone eyes of Dragonstone. The same day they passed by Duskendale, Kings Landing emerged above the horizon.
Sansa braced herself, donned her second-finest dress, waited. The feeling of Arya's letter - crumpled and worn as it was - tucked beneath her dress soothed her. They pulled into Blackwater Bay slowly, the three high hills of the city visible above the walls. Much of the devastation of the city that war had wrought appeared undone, far as she could tell. Though the smell, when it hit her, was just as strong as she remembered.
Again, Lord Nestor led the way, descending down the gangplank with Vale knights at his flanks. They were greeted by a small group, and led to the keep as honoured guests of the king. Guests in gilded cages, Sansa thought, wringing her hands as she watched Lord Nestor through the window of her litter. Her seat shook rhythmically with the uneven stride of the men carrying her. A pair of goldcloaks passed by, chattering with each other as they cast their gaze about. A man pushed a barrow laden with what looked like lumber into an alley. In the distance, Sansa could see scaffolds.
She looked everywhere but the Red Keep, but she could avoid her destination no longer. Her litter stopped moving, and gently was settled onto the ground. Taking Lothor's offered hand, Sansa exited to face the castle she had fled, drawing in a deep breath to calm herself. A guardsman greeted Lord Nestor.
"My lord," he began with a bow, "His Grace awaits you on his terrace."
Lord Nestor's only response was a curt nod. They began their trek through the Red Keep together, lord and lady and a few knights. The rest of the men split off, and were led to a different part of the keep, to their quarters. Sansa kept her head bowed as she went, gaze fixed to her feet. She felt sick again.
You're an idiot, she found herself thinking. You fled from this place, didn't you? And yet here you are, like a mouse lured by cheese.
Through the keep they went, Sansa's shoes falling on uncomfortably familiar flagstones. Up some steps. Round two bends. And into the Lion's den.
Guardsmen eyed her approach, all clad in royal colours. But undoubtedly some were Westermen, and some were Reachmen. And likely some were Dornishmen and Valemen and Riverlanders and Stormlanders and perhaps a few Northmen too. How many of those who lined their approach were of the city below? How many crownlanders were left? Two-thirds? Half? Less?
One bowed as they approached, ushering them through. "His Grace is expecting you, m'lord, m'lady."
They went forwards, only for the spears to descend.
Lord Nestor scowled. "What is the meaning of this?" he hissed.
"Only the two of you, m'lord."
Sansa shot an uneasy glance Lothor's way, her every instinct screaming at her to turn and run, to make for the nearest ledge and leap away to freedom. She felt dizzy, as though she might suddenly fall over, or vomit again. But somehow she kept her head, and before she knew it Lord Nestor had given his assent.
She saw Cersei first, eyes cold and cruel. Then Tyrion, laughing at something he'd just said. Then Tywin, sat calmly, surveying the room.
And finally, Tommen, strangely ridiculous sat behind his desk, almost hiding behind heaps of parchment.
Lord Nestor eyed the Old Lion a moment, uncertain how to proceed. But Lord Tywin did not take the lead, and Lord Nestor turned his gaze instead to the young lad.
"Your Grace," he said with a shallow bow. "I have come to bend the knee, on behalf of the Lord Protector of the Vale."
Tommen's eyes flicked over Lord Nestor, seemingly not even noting her presence in the room. "You have come bearing gifts, I trust?"
Lord Nestor removed the basket from it's place beneath his arm, and presented it to the king. "Littlefinger's head, Your Grace."
Tommen gestured with his head, and Tyrion hopped off his seat, took the offered basket, and waddled over to hand it to his king. Tommen promptly flipped open the lid and pulled out Petyr's head, studying it's rotting features intently as though they were the pages of a book, a look of mild revulsion on his face.
Bulging eyes, skin drawn tight over bone, mottled and cracked to show sinew and muscle beneath, hair coming away in clumps in Tommen's little hands. The neck appeared to have developed a touch of fungus. The tongue was swollen in the mouth, pressing against yellow, dead teeth.
...
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