Inside the Great Sept of Baelor, Sansa Stark looked up, her gaze calmly sweeping across the three faces on the high platform.
Then, her gaze swept past the first row of the gallery. Unsurprisingly, Cersei Lannister—who should have been her mother-in-law but was now her sister-in-law—was glaring at her with an incredibly venomous look.
Sansa took a soft breath.
She could hear her heart pounding in her chest, a light sweat breaking out on her palms.
Although she had experienced scenes like this more than once after her father was accused of treason and imprisoned—all thanks to the sick amusement of the former king, Joffrey—Sansa still couldn't help but feel a little nervous under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes with varying expressions.
In the end, she forced down her nervousness, curtsied, and performed an impeccable noble salute.
Her movements were elegant and fluid, every detail conforming to the etiquette of the southern court. These were things she had learned in Winterfell; her mother, who came from The Riverlands, had spared no effort in teaching her, making her every gesture indistinguishable from those of the highborn ladies of the south.
"My Lords."
Sansa spoke. There was not a hint of a northern accent, yet her voice was so cold it was as if one could see a sky full of ice and snow.
Her voice did not tremble in the slightest; instead, it carried a tempered calmness.
"I am Sansa Stark!"
"Daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Lady Catelyn Tully! The rightful heir to Winterfell!"
She paused, turning her gaze to the shackled dwarf beside her.
Tyrion was looking up at her, utter disbelief showing in his mismatched grey-green eyes.
The young girl's slender, proudly raised neck even gave Tyrion an illusion, as if her figure was gradually overlapping with that of the highborn lady who had accused him back in The Riverlands.
She looked so much like her mother.
For a brief moment their eyes met, but there was no flicker of emotion in Sansa's gaze.
"And..." She turned her gaze back to the high platform, saying word by word, "the lawful wife of Tyrion Lannister!"
"Lawful wife!"
The words echoed through the Great Sept.
Everyone knew what this meant. It meant that if Tyrion were convicted and executed, Sansa Stark, as his lawful wife, would inherit his property and titles.
Yet, she was also a Stark.
The silence was finally broken.
Whispers rose from all sides like a tide, merging into a buzzing clamor.
"Gods above, she really is back..."
""
"Missing for so many days, and she chooses today of all days..."
""
Cersei's face, watching from the gallery, was terribly contorted.
For that northern girl, whom she had always viewed as a stupid little bird to be molded at will, actually dared to stand here so calmly and proudly, scanning the room with that hatefully serene gaze!
What made her even more furious was that this bitch actually dared to call herself "Tyrion's wife"!
That dwarf demon who murdered her precious son!
Unlike the madness of the Queen Regent, Tywin remained silent.
He just sat quietly, his fierce gaze scrutinizing the young woman at the bottom of the steps.
She had changed.
Tywin realized this clearly.
The Sansa Stark of this moment stood tall and straight, her gaze firm, her words clear, radiating a cold, hard temperament that had settled after enduring immense suffering.
"Interesting."
Tywin's finger tapped gently on the armrest.
"Who had brought about this change in her?"
Instinctively, his gaze drifted past Sansa's shoulder, looking toward the open doors of the Great Sept.
Sunlight streamed in from outside, casting a bright patch of light on the floor by the entrance.
In the shadows at the edge of the light, something seemed to be moving.
Tywin quietly withdrew his gaze and refocused on Sansa. No matter who stood behind her, she was standing here now.
"What did she want?"
"And how much did she know?"
As the de facto ruler of The Seven Kingdoms, Tywin was accustomed to controlling everything. Sansa's sudden appearance was unplanned, but he needed to understand the nature of the situation first.
"Lady Sansa."
Tywin finally spoke, and everyone pricked up their ears.
"Your return is unexpected."
"During the time you fled King's Landing, where on earth did you go?"
Tywin leaned forward slightly, his golden-green eyes locking onto Sansa like a hawk.
His gaze was as sharp as a blade, and he directly used the word "fled," characterizing Sansa's disappearance as a flight after murder.
But out of the corner of his eye, Tywin glanced once more at the area of shifting light and shadow near the entrance.
He knew very well that Sansa Stark on her own would never have the courage to stand here alone.
"Sure enough."
Before long, a figure slowly stepped in from the boundary where the bright sunlight outside met the shadows within.
The man walked slowly with an easy stride, as if he were merely strolling into his own hall.
He wore plain, dark homespun trousers and a shirt, topped with a half-worn leather vest, and a common-looking longsword hung at his waist, appearing just like an ordinary commoner.
In fact, his appearance did not cause much of a stir; after all, the attention of most nobles was still focused on the dialogue between Sansa and Tywin.
Only a few sharp-eyed individuals, such as those sitting in the gallery, noticed him.
But Tywin saw him.
His pupils contracted imperceptibly for a fraction of a second before returning to normal, though his hand resting on the armrest tightened slightly.
"Vito Corleone."
The man whom blades could not touch had finally appeared.
In an instant, countless thoughts flashed through Tywin's mind.
The simultaneous appearance of Corleone and Sansa was by no means a coincidence.
This meant that Sansa's disappearance, her concealment, and even her appearance now were inextricably linked to this mysterious Farmer knight.
"But what did Corleone want to do?"
"Save Tyrion?"
"Why?"
Tywin's thoughts were in utter disarray, but his face remained as calm as still water as he awaited Sansa's response and Corleone's next move.
Sansa didn't seem to notice the slight movement at the entrance, or perhaps she did but simply didn't care.
Meeting Tywin's scrutinizing gaze, she raised her voice, ensuring that every word could be heard clearly throughout the Sept: "I have been in King's Landing all along, my Lord."
"In Flea Bottom."
"Flea Bottom."
The word instantly ignited an even greater uproar!
"Flea Bottom? Gods above!"
"The Stark girl hiding in Flea Bottom? How is that possible!"
"It's filthy and foul-smelling, full of beggars and thieves..."
"..."
"How did she survive?"
Cries of disbelief mingled together, turning the solemn Sept into a noisy marketplace in an instant.
The expressions on the faces of the nobles were a sight to behold.
Flea Bottom was the lowest, filthiest, and most chaotic district of King's Landing, a festering sore that nobles would rather take a detour to avoid.
Although someone seemed to have completely transformed that place in recent days, to the nobles of King's Landing, it was still unbearably vulgar.
But now, a highborn duke's daughter, a lady renowned for her beauty and elegance, actually claimed to have hidden in such a place?
It was even more unbelievable than saying she had fled beyond the Wall!
Lord Mace Tyrell's fat face showed undisguised disdain, and he shook his head as if he had heard some foul language that defiled his ears.
Cersei let out a short, sharp sneer, her face filled with the smug satisfaction of "look at her, she's talking nonsense."
However, Tywin, as Hand of the King, did not interrupt the commotion.
He let the waves of noise rise and fall, but his gaze never left Sansa's face, observing her reaction.
Yet, Sansa just stood there quietly, her chin slightly raised, letting those gazes and whispers wash over her like a tide.
Her blue eyes were clear and calm, like a frozen lake, reflecting no ripples whatsoever.
Once the clamor subsided slightly, Sansa spoke again, her voice louder and firmer than before: "Furthermore, I did not 'flee' King's Landing."
She deliberately emphasized the word "flee," her gaze sweeping consciously or unconsciously across Cersei in the front row of the gallery before turning back to Tywin.
"I was abducted."
"Abducted!"
The shock brought by this word was even greater than "Flea Bottom"!
To abduct a duke's daughter during the king's wedding feast, inside the Red Keep, right under the noses of hundreds of nobles and soldiers.
"Who would dare?"
"Who could?"
"Even the The Mad King Aerys wouldn't have dared to be so mad!"
The Great Sept erupted into complete chaos.
AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite
This time, even the most composed nobles could not help but whisper to one another, their voices growing louder and louder.
Suspicion, confusion, anger, curiosity—all sorts of emotions permeated the air.
But just then, the Hand slowly raised his hand.
It was a simple gesture, yet everyone quieted down because of it. All eyes converged on the Hand once again, waiting for his reaction.
Tywin did not speak immediately.
He looked at Sansa for a full five seconds before asking slowly, "Who abducted you, Lady Sansa?"
Upon hearing this, Sansa took a deep breath.
She could feel everyone's gaze pricking her like needles, and Cersei's eyes seemed almost to materialize into a venomous stare.
However, she still felt confident inside.
Because... he was there.
He had promised to ensure her safety and would intervene when necessary.
Letting out a long breath, Sansa raised her head, swept her gaze across the entire room, and finally fixed it on Tywin's face, speaking calmly, "Dontos Hollard!"
"The moment His Majesty Joffrey fell, I couldn't react at all."
"The crowd was in chaos, screams were everywhere, and Ser Dontos, wearing his fool's motley, suddenly grabbed my arm with astonishing strength."
"He covered my mouth and dragged me toward the side door."
As she spoke, she paused, as if recalling the terror of that moment.
"He told me that he had been instructed by someone to take me away from King's Landing, otherwise my life would be in danger. He said the Red Keep was no longer safe and that someone wanted to kill me to silence me."
"I struggled, but it was useless. He shoved me into a carriage waiting in the shadows and covered my nose and mouth with a cloth soaked in potion... By the time I woke up, I was already on a filthy cargo ship on the banks of the Blackwater Rush."
Her narrative was clear and detailed, devoid of excessive emotional embellishment, which instead made it sound authentic and credible.
"Liar!"
Upon hearing Sansa's account, the Queen Regent, who had previously been unconcerned with her affairs, suddenly lost her composure. Her scream tore through the silence of the Great Sept, the voice twisted and distorted by extreme anger and fear.
Pointing her finger at Sansa's nose, she cursed furiously, "This bitch! She and her husband, the dwarf, conspired to murder my son, and then she snuck out of King's Landing! She is lying! It's all lies!"
Cersei's chest heaved violently, and her luxurious dress rustled with her movements.
She turned to the judgment seat and hissed at Tywin, her voice choked with tears, "Father! You cannot believe her! She is a Stark, she is in league with that demon!"
"I demand... I demand that she and that demon be tried together! Charge them with regicide!"
Watching Cersei's face, twisted by anger and fear, Sansa quietly clenched her fists.
How similar it was.
Cersei at this moment was exactly like Joffrey had been back then—just as self-righteous, just as hysterical.
Back then, she had been frightened, deceived, and played in the palm of his hand by that very demeanor.
If this had been a year ago, or even a few months ago, facing the Queen Regent's public accusations and insults, she would have panicked, rushed to defend herself, wept, and begged, cowering like a frightened little bird.
But the Sansa Stark of now was no longer that little bird.
She had experienced her father's arrest and public execution, her family's collapse and the stain of "treason," and Joffrey's day-after-day of cruel torment...
She had witnessed the deepest malice of human nature and felt the most humble kindness.
She had died many times; that naive and foolish "little bird Sansa" had long since died in countless weeping nights.
And the one standing here now was a Sansa Stark reforged from ashes and ice.
She might not be strong enough yet, nor wise enough, but she had learned to be calm, learned to observe, and learned to steady her breathing in the eye of the storm.
More importantly, the fact that she dared to stand here today, facing the most powerful people in The Seven Kingdoms, facing a Queen Regent who wished to eat her flesh, proved that she had the confidence!
This confidence came not only from her own growth but also from a promise, an incomparably powerful backing!
Therefore, Sansa did not argue, did not cry out, and did not even look at Cersei.
She only slowly unclenched her fists, raised her head, and cast her gaze past the frantically screaming Queen Regent, directly toward the person on the high platform who truly controlled the situation: Tywin Lannister.
Someone had instructed her that after saying these words, she only needed to wait quietly.
Sure enough, on the main seat, the Hand looked at his daughter, who was screaming and losing her composure, with no expression on his face, but deep in those emerald eyes, a flash of disappointment flickered.
Cersei.
His only daughter had inherited the Lannister blonde hair and green eyes, and inherited the family's hunger for power and control, yet she had not inherited the wisdom and patience to match it.
She was like a lioness driven by instinct—fierce and violent, yet lacking strategic vision, easily swayed by emotions, and capable only of hissing and snapping at critical moments.
Foolish.
Tywin evaluated coldly in his heart.
Just as foolish as her son Joffrey, or perhaps even worse.
Joffrey was at least an unpolished child, while Cersei was already a grown woman who had experienced marriage, childbirth, and court intrigue.
Did she not understand?
Sansa Stark's sudden appearance was indeed a variable, but it was also an opportunity!
An opportunity to grasp the succession rights of the North back into their hands!
Had he not forced Tyrion to marry Sansa precisely to gain a legal claim to the North for House Lannister through this marriage?
But what was Cersei doing?
She was actually clamoring to have Sansa and Tyrion tried and executed together?
This daughter did not think like him at all; she only saw hatred, only saw revenge, but could not see the price that needed to be paid behind that hatred and revenge, nor could she see the big picture.
She would never learn that true power does not lie in killing enemies, but in making enemies work for you.
Shaking his head slightly, Tywin ignored Cersei's screams.
He did not even look at her, but simply cleared his throat, then slowly straightened his posture, his gaze falling back onto Sansa.
"Lady Sansa."
"You say you have been staying in Flea Bottom."
"Then, is there anyone who can testify for you?"
This was a critical question.
Everyone's gaze focused on Sansa once again.
Tyrion held his breath, his heart nearly jumping out of his throat.
Sansa took another deep breath.
She could feel the weight of those countless gazes, could feel Cersei's malice that had almost materialized, and could feel the unfathomable depth beneath Tywin's calm surface.
She also knew that her next words would completely change the course of this trial.
But Sansa did not answer immediately; instead, she turned slightly, casting her gaze toward the door of the Great Sept, toward that area where sunlight and shadows intertwined.
The corners of her mouth slowly curled upward into a playful arc.
"Of course, my lord."
Just then, a calm and gentle voice came from the direction of the door.
The voice was not loud, yet it seemed to carry a sense of unhurried confidence.
"I can testify for Lady Sansa Stark."
Upon hearing this, the entire Great Sept of Baelor—hundreds of nobles, knights, and Gold Cloaks—all turned their heads in unison, looking toward the source of the voice.
Sunlight poured in from the open doorway, casting golden patches of light onto the floor.
In the shadows at the edge of the light, that person took a step forward, walking completely into the light inside the Sept.
He was still wearing that simple, almost shabby, coarse cloth clothing and an old leather vest, with a longsword hanging at his waist.
Some people recognized him.
Or rather, they had all heard those increasingly bizarre and increasingly awe-inspiring legends.
The Farmer who established order in Flea Bottom, defeated the Mountain, was personally knighted by the Hand, and who had mysteriously disappeared not long ago only to return to King's Landing to take charge of order in Flea Bottom once again.
Vito Corleone.
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