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Tower of the Hand.
Sansa Stark stood at the window, looking down at the Kingsroad below, already buried under a sea of flowers.
She hadn't slept all night.
She truly couldn't sleep.
Beneath those beautiful blue eyes, faint shadows lingered, carefully hidden under a layer of powder.
She wore a sky-blue gown, her favorite color, the color of Winterfell's sky. The collar and cuffs were embroidered in silver thread with delicate direwolf patterns.
This was her pride as the eldest daughter of House Stark.
She watched the handmaidens scatter basket after basket of golden rose petals across the cold stone path without the slightest hesitation.
Those petals should have been laid for her.
The man about to receive the adoration of thousands and wed a princess — he should have been her husband.
And yet here she was. Nothing but a spectator.
A pitiful spectator, dressed in her finest, forced to offer "heartfelt" congratulations at her rival's wedding.
"Lady Sansa. It's time."
The handmaiden's voice came from behind her.
Sansa didn't turn. She answered with a quiet sound, barely a word.
She took one last look at that golden sea outside the window. Then she turned and walked out of the room that had been slowly suffocating her.
Every step made her already-fractured heart a little more fragile.
...
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, the mood was something else entirely.
Myrcella Baratheon, the undisputed center of this day, sat quietly before her dressing table.
She let a dozen handmaidens swarm around her like bees tending their queen, adding the finishing touches to her appearance.
The gown she wore was the kind that would drive every woman in the Seven Kingdoms mad with envy.
Ivory-white silk from Lys flowed with a soft, liquid luster. The cut was not elaborate, but it was perfect, tracing the maiden's already-lovely curves with an effortless precision.
Most stunning were the patterns stitched dense and fine into the skirt and bodice with the thinnest gold thread.
The stag of House Baratheon.
It sprawled across the ivory silk in a posture that was almost arrogant.
Hidden beneath intricate lacework and tiny seed pearls, it was easy to overlook from a distance.
But step close, and that undeniable weight, regal and commanding, hit you like a wall.
Cersei had chosen this herself.
Myrcella studied her reflection.
That beautiful face was full of shyness and joy.
She traced the gold-thread stag embroidered over her heart.
And couldn't help but wonder.
What expression would Lynn make when he saw her?
Would he like her, looking like this?
The corner of Myrcella's mouth curled upward on its own.
She was very much looking forward to finding out.
...
At the same time. Tower of the Hand.
Lynn was already dressed.
He hadn't gone with the elaborate, ornate style favored by southern nobles. What he wore was a fitted long coat of fine black velvet, without a single unnecessary detail.
The only accents were the three-headed dragon sigil, his alone, embroidered at the collar and cuffs in mithril thread.
Lynn turned and walked out.
...
The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor rang out one after another, their toll rolling in solemn waves across the skies of King's Landing.
Inside the sept, the nobility and dignitaries of the Seven Kingdoms were assembled.
King Robert slouched in the ornate chair set aside for him in the front row, a massive golden goblet in hand, pouring wine steadily into his mouth, face flushed and gleaming.
Queen Cersei sat beside him, wearing a smile of noble, unshakeable confidence.
Sansa had been placed in an unobtrusive corner.
She stared at the great stained-glass window, the seven-pointed star, watching sunlight filter through the colored panes and scatter in broken patterns across the floor.
She felt like an actor who had stumbled onto the wrong stage.
Every smiling face. Every offered congratulation. Each one found her heart without mercy.
She regretted it.
She truly regretted it.
She regretted that night, regretted not being just a little braver.
If only...
If only that night, she hadn't let Myrcella stop her.
If she had done what she'd imagined, sat on the armrest of Lynn's chair and kissed him,
Would things have ended differently?
Would Lynn have refused this whole ridiculous wedding for her sake?
The thought took root, and she couldn't shake it loose.
Then the great doors of the sept swung slowly open.
Every head turned at once.
Myrcella appeared.
She held Ned Stark's arm, stepping into the light.
Like an ivory statue that had learned to walk.
She was stunning.
Breathtakingly, achingly stunning.
Stunning enough to make the entire sept feel dim by comparison.
Sansa watched her.
Watched that magnificent gown. Watched that flawless smile.
She felt her own breath leave her body and not come back.
Ned Stark walked expressionless beside Myrcella, step by measured step, down a red carpet that seemed to go on forever.
Sansa watched her father.
Watched him lead another girl, by hand, to the man who should have been hers.
A wild thought surged up in her chest.
Run forward.
Like in all the songs the bards sang, just run forward.
Tell everyone — this man is mine.
She couldn't.
Her name was Sansa Stark. Behind her stood the honor of the entire North. She could not bring shame on her father. She could not make House Stark the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms.
So she stood here. Watching. Helpless as a coward.
Ned reached Lynn.
He placed Myrcella's hand into Lynn's.
In that moment of transfer, Sansa thought she heard her own heart break.
A deep, pulling ache.
The High Septon stepped forward.
His aged, unhurried voice filled the silent sept.
"Under the light of the Seven, we are gathered here today to witness the union of two souls."
"Lynn, do you swear to shelter Myrcella of House Baratheon with this cloak?"
Lynn settled the cloak, bearing the three-headed dragon, over Myrcella's shoulders.
A symbol that she was leaving her father's house. Joining his.
"I do."
Lynn's voice was calm and clear.
Sansa closed her eyes.
A septon stepped forward.
"Father. Mother. Warrior. Maiden. Smith. Crone. Stranger."
"The Seven above, I call on them to bear witness."
"Lynn, you may begin."
Lynn nodded.
He looked at Myrcella, soft and radiant before him, and spoke.
"I charge you, in the name of the Father, to be just."
"In the name of the Mother, to be merciful."
"In the name of the Warrior, to be brave."
"In the name of the Maiden, to protect all women and children."
Myrcella repeated the vows back to him.
"From this day, until the end of my days."
When she finished, the septon nodded.
"Here, before gods and men, I now proclaim Lynn and Myrcella to be man and wife."
"Henceforth they are one flesh, one heart, one soul, for all their days."
"One is the beginning, and one is the end."
...
"Alright, enough — I do!"
Myrcella's voice rang out, sharp and bright and utterly impatient, cutting straight through the sacred vows.
The entire sept fell into a strange, suspended silence.
Everyone froze.
Even the High Septon and the septon stood there with their mouths open, forgetting entirely what came next.
But the truly shocking part hadn't happened yet.
Before anyone could process it, Myrcella rose onto her toes.
One hand hooked around Lynn's neck. The other pressed hard against the back of his head.
And then she kissed him, fierce and claiming, with an edge that was almost savage. Pure possession. Pure declaration.
No shyness. No restraint.
Just a statement that brooked no argument.
The sept exploded.
King Robert launched out of his chair. His golden goblet hit the floor with a CRASH, and he erupted into thunderous, full-bodied laughter, clapping his hands like a man at a joust.
"HAHAHAHA! Yes! That's my girl!"
Cersei's smile grew wider, the smugness reaching her eyes, nearly spilling past the corners.
Good.
Her daughter had finally learned how to wear a mask.
She was certain of it. Myrcella would use every ounce of that performance to keep this northern wolf firmly tethered at her feet.
She didn't know.
Beneath that mask, there was no performance left.
Only a blazing, thoroughly ignited heart, and it was already burning toward the point of no return.
Jaime watched the two of them with a complicated expression. Then, without quite realizing it, the faintest smile crossed his face.
And Sansa.
Sansa was staring at the altar and couldn't look away.
She watched Myrcella claim her Lynn with absolute, shameless dominance.
She watched Lynn recover from his initial shock and then, unhurried, wrap one arm around Myrcella's waist and kiss her back, deeper.
The world turned black and white.
Only the two of them had any color left.
That color was scorching. Blinding. It burned Sansa's eyes until they ached.
She felt like she was drowning.
Standing under the eyes of everyone in that sept, pinned there by her own jealousy and heartbreak, unable to move or look away.
Myrcella finally ended the kiss.
She turned her face just slightly to the side and let her gaze find, with exact, surgical precision, the sky-blue figure standing in the corner.
She saw it.
Saw Sansa's face, drained white as paper. Saw the pain in her eyes, raw and unguarded, with nowhere left to hide.
A wave of victory crashed through Myrcella from head to toe. Pure, uncut triumph, and something darker underneath, something twisted and blazing.
Good.
Look, Sansa. Look carefully.
See who won.
Myrcella released Lynn. Her lips were still rosy and glistening, devastatingly beautiful.
She stared at him, slightly dazed.
And in a voice so soft only she could hear it, soft but burning, burning like something that had lost its mind,
She said it word by word.
"From today, you're mine, Lynn."
"Your eyes. Your lips. Your body. Your heart."
"All of it. Mine."
"Every single hair on your head belongs only to me."
"And if you ever try to leave me —"
Myrcella's smile grew sweeter. And more dangerous.
"I'll break your legs and lock you in a room no one else will ever find."
"I'll feed you every day. Sing to you. Make sure you have nowhere to go."
"Make you mine. Forever."
"Only mine."
➤ Next: Lysa Strikes
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