Here is Chapter 7! I will likely be creating a story thread on a SB soon, when I do I have two small asks.
Please no spoilers!
I do appreciate engagement, even if you've already read and commented here. :)
As usual, no editor for this so feel free to point out any proofreading misses.
Chapter 7
Now that Arya had learned how to warg and my own ability to slip into Visha’s skin was second nature, I began to branch out a bit. The Red Keep had a fair number of cats. They were sometimes pets, but most often just there to help keep the rodent population under control. A little piece of fish served as excellent bait and after I had one eating out of my hand it consented to let me carry it and bring it to my room. Visha yawned and the cat looked at her hesitantly but then settled in my arms.
Closing the door, I then attempted to warg into the gray feline. An effort of will and suddenly it happened. Immediately I was disoriented by a different set of senses. With Visha I had already experienced the sense of her while dreaming, but now it was completely foreign. The other difference was that Visha was comfortable and almost welcoming, but the cat was not. It let out a yowl and a hiss and then I exerted control. It didn’t like that. I felt momentarily bad for crushing its will underneath mine, but the animal instinct to flee the room was not helpful.
That done, being a cat turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. Their sense of balance and grace was better than the direwolf’s. Visha had more raw physical power of course, but the cat… the cat allowed me to roam and overhear things that would otherwise be impossible. Unfortunately, there were some problems with this plan.
Ugh.
As a cat I couldn’t open the door, nor would I want the open entryway to my chambers in the Tower of the Hand to reveal my once again comatose form. I had not thought this through. I was just experimenting. I slipped out of the cat who immediately hid under the bed and hissed. This would probably be a two-person job, but for now, the experiment was a success.
I opened the door and the cat fled. I wondered what else I could warg into. Ideas percolated through my thoughts. Animals like horses, ravens, and the like had some uses. Ravens were used to carry messages, though the odds of picking the right one might be slim. And being unconscious to the world while I waited seemed hazardous. Slipping my skin into a horse to interfere with a joust for good or ill was another possibility. I had taken a sudden and rather extreme approach to dealing with Joffrey, but with this ability I could have potentially arranged a different accident altogether.
Though at the time I didn’t know all I could do with this strange power.
And it was strange. This seemed so very different than strict mathematical formulae that governed magic. It was more… fuzzy, or perhaps nebulous. I didn’t like that aspect. Magic followed a set of rules and manipulated physics and chemistry, but it followed the rules. What the hell was this? What was actually being changed within reality that allowed me to hijack a primitive mind and control it with my own unconscious one. The disturbing oddity of it would not keep me from further experimentation but it was disquieting.
The safest way to experiment with other animals and attempt to find a use for it would be to work with Arya. She was normally good about listening to me, but I knew she chafed sometimes and wanted to rush ahead. I wasn’t sure I wanted to reveal to her that she could warg into other animals. The cat had tried to fight me before I had forced it down. But I was a person who was on their third life and had a very strong sense of self, what if Arya did not have as easy of a time? The wolves bonded to us seemed safe, but another animal altogether seemed more dangerous to me. Even if the odds were low, I didn’t want to take the chance until she was more secure in her warg abilities.
Father seemed frustrated with his new role as Hand. Over a private family supper with me and Arya, I probed a bit about the issues.
“You’ve an able mind, Sansa, but I fear my problems cannot be solved with your wits. Robert has borrowed extensive sums to pay for tournaments and feasts. He is offering staggering sums of gold for this gods-cursed tourney he wishes to hold. The realm should be mourning the loss of its prince, not having a celebration.”
I nodded. Spending, debt, income, and the like were not just numbers and accounting problems. It would be nice if they were just mathematical problems to be solved, but I lived in the real world. Budgeting on a national scale was about politics and status. Emotion and pride.
“I suspect the king wishes to turn the page from grief to something that brings him comfort. Perhaps a direct approach where the tournament does not happen is impossible to accept. Have you tried looking for a compromise on the expenses?”
“He considers it ‘counting coppers’ and will not hear of it.”
A frown creased my face at the seeming incongruity.
“The king was explicit with the numerical value of the prize purses?”
My father paused mid-bite and then frowned. “He dictated a letter with the amounts.”
“Strange, for someone who does not wish to count coppers,” I replied thoughtfully. “If the king is being obstinate and insistent on a big public spectacle to move on from the grief of losing his son, you will need to approach it less directly. What are the amounts in question?”
My father told me the staggering prizes. No wonder he was upset. For three hundred gold dragons, you could pay a ransom for a knight. Ten thousand gold dragons for the best archer? Twenty thousand for the winner of the melee? A total of sixty thousand split between the winner and runner-up? Insane. With ten gold dragons, I could pay a guard’s yearly salary and outfit them with a set of steel armor that included a greathelm.
“That amount is far too high, I agree, Father. Since the king wants it done sooner than late, you have a few options before the ravens go out announcing the prize pool.”
He looked on, curious as to what I would say.
“The first is to use your power as Hand of the King. He has given you instructions, but you are the one who interprets his orders. Robert is a king who does not want to be fussed about the details. Simply alter the prize amounts on your own authority. There’s an element of risk here, but if the king tells you to send a raven to summon a lord who has already arrived in the city, do you make the man wait while you write and send the letter anyway, or do you simply speak to him directly? Depending on your prior conversations with the king, this may no longer be possible, but you can also fall back on the notion that if you intend to stay as his Hand, you must be given autonomy to make decisions.”
The honorable man, the Lord of Winterfell, looked pained at the suggestion.
“And your other suggestions?”
“The next alternative is to raise money to pay for the expense. Increase taxation, possibly a gate tax for visiting knights and lords. Tournament fees for the participants. Levy additional incomes from lords great and small across Westeros. No doubt, this will be highly unpopular and you can then sit with Robert and show that all expenses must eventually be paid for.”
He shook his head. “He’ll never agree to it, for he likes being beloved by the people.”
“Go on a hunt with him then. Find a time and place where you can at least explain these things to him as well as the consequences. But if neither sound doable, perhaps I can speak with him about an idea to keep the roads safer so something like what happened my betrothed won’t happen again.” I let my eyes lose focus a bit and added a slight tremble to my hand and a hitch in my throat before continuing.
“I can ask the king about an idea I had that my Lord Father said couldn’t be done because of the expense of the tournament. It would mean having regular patrols near King’s Landing and perhaps a small watchtower near where Joffrey was slain next to the Trident. As the maid who was despoiled by brigands, I can be very persuasive and see about cutting the tourney purses in half and then use half of the savings for those ideas.”
Arya laughed. “And you save the realm…” She scrunched up her face. “Twenty-two thousand five hundred gold dragons!”
It was clear that my father was deeply uneasy with my recommendations.
"Sansa, I fear this place has already sunk into you, and it has only been two days! These… conniving means are not honorable and are why the Seven Kingdoms have been beggared."
“We must adapt. None of what I would say to the king is a lie. Having a vital artery of trade well-guarded, especially as the harvest comes due and winter eventually looms, is to the good of all. That we find ways to spend less than the full forty-five thousand gold dragons we are cutting from the purse is just good stewardship.” I took a small sip from my cup. “This assumes I am also successful, but I believe it can be done.”
He looked at me for a long moment and then slowly nodded. “I will not act contrary to what my king has directly commanded. He will not listen to detailed explanations about incomes and spendthrift ways. If you think you can convince him, I will somehow arrange a time.”
That, of course, could be dicey, as it really should not look like Father arranged it.
“No, I will handle it.”
A frown crested his features again, but before he could raise an objection, I pressed on and made my case for allowing me to handle it myself. A direct, seemingly forward, and impromptu girlish push seemed far better than an attempt at a formal meeting or a public spectacle. I had already handed some silver stags to the serving maids to let me know about the comings and goings of the powerful. Nothing like proper spying, just the lay of the land in terms of when meals were held, who the queen liked to be accompanied by, and the schedule for room tidying and the like. It had allowed me to create a picture in my head of the default schedule that the Red Keep followed.
Though clearly with some misgivings, my father agreed, and Arya eagerly said, “I want to help.”
You’ll help in other ways soon, Arya.
***
Robert detested court, so he did not make it a daily affair to sit on the damned uncomfortable Iron Throne. He had not made it back to the royal bedchamber, and instead had collapsed unconscious after sleeping with one of his new favorites. The Red Keep had a number of places to fuck and, in this case, sleep. He knew better than to take his dalliances into the room he shared with the queen. Though he did find it quite the lark to make the queen’s brother guard his door on nights when he fucked women who didn’t guard their cunt as much as Cersei did.
By the time the morn had come, Robert woke with a pounding skull and the sour aftertaste of last night’s wine thick on his tongue. The golden son of Tywin had already been relieved by someone else. Today it was apparently Ser Preston Greenfield.
“Your Grace, pardon the interruption, but the Hand’s daughter is without and wishes to speak with you.”
Robert rubbed at his head.
“What? Why is she here?”
Ser Preston looked uncomfortable, “She seems upset, says something about a quarrel with her father.”
“Seven Hells! What does that have to do with me? Ned can handle his own household.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He closed the door and Robert muttered to himself before shouting, “And send for my manservants, I may as well get dressed.”
He quaffed some wine and heard Preston speak through the door at length. The muffled words could not quite be made out but he seemed to be taking his damn time. The door opened again.
“Your Grace, she says that it has to do with… what happened to the prince.”
A fresh wave of haunting energy filled him.
Has she remembered something?
He grabbed some clothing and quickly dressed, not completely properly, but now he needed to know.
“Give me a minute, and then send her in.”
Sansa Stark entered. Her eyes looked a bit puffy and his heart went out to her. What had happened to her and his Joffrey was a cruelty beyond words. It reminded him of what had happened to Lyanna and a familiar rage was beginning to rouse.
No, I mustn’t scare her.
She curtsied. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for intruding. I did not know what else to do. I may just be a silly girl, but what happened to my betrothed haunts me and my father will not listen.”
Her eyes were red-rimmed and there was a bit of dampness on her cheek that she rubbed away as she put on a trembling effort to keep a gentle and composed face.
There is not much of Lyanna in her. The hair and height are wrong, but there is a touch within her face.
“Calm yourself, child. That doesn’t sound like your father.”
“He says he wants to, but that the treasury cannot bear the expense. I had… I had suggested that maybe the roads be patrolled more along the kingsroad. That we expand the guards to keep it safe so nothing like what… what… you know.” Her voice faltered, but then she pressed on. “He says that there are already difficulties in borrowing sums for the tourney and that he cannot conscientiously approve any further spending at this time. I know the realm is so looking forward to honoring the bravery of the prince, but I had hoped that as a gesture of goodwill the knights who are victorious donate the coin they win to that cause.”
Robert winced. The girl did not understand matters of state. The crown could not be seen as so weak as to depend on donations. Such a thing would make him the laughing stock of the realm. Besides, there was always more coin to be found from somewhere, surely.
“The matter of additional protection for the roads will be taken up by the Small Council. The crown has coin; we will not be seen as some poorly managed reign unable to provide for the common safety. Do not fret, child, you shall not go unguarded again. I… I must apologize for the lack of it before this.”
Sansa lowered her head. “Your Grace, ‘tis not your fault. Not even my own father’s men were with me. It was the actions of wanton cruelty from lesser men.” She bit her lip. “And I thank you for letting the small council hear my plea. I fear that as my father is the head of it, there may not be much that comes of it. I love him, but he is so overwrought. He fears for the realm, Your Grace. Mayhaps, could I ask whoever the winners are to donate to the cause? That way it does not seem to come from the realm’s governance itself. As a gesture for the construction of Joffrey’s tower to house the guards upon the Trident perhaps. They would be seen as courtly and generous and as hearing a widow, of sorts, plea?”
Robert still didn’t like the look of it. He also misliked how disturbed Ned was about the finances. Surely it couldn’t be all that bad. The man was always so serious all the time. Seeing the earnest girl before him made him want to just resolve the matter then and there without being forced to look at stacks of parchments and numbers.
“Child,” he said, trying to keep his voice mild, “Sansa, ‘tis not necessary. We have coin enough.”
“But we don’t, Your Grace!” she said, with wide-eyed despair. “I overheard my father say that the crown is being charged ruinous rates to borrow sums and that he struggles with trying to fix the crown’s finances. I don’t know all the details, but I was taught sums by Maester Luwin and it shouldn’t cost more than forty thousand gold dragons to build Joffrey’s Tower and man it with knights and riders. If we must borrow for just such an amount, are not things dire?”
Robert clenched his teeth. He wanted to throw something, but he would not further traumatize his best friend’s daughter. He detested these petty details, but if Ned was truly so distraught over this… a thought came to him then: a way to appear wise and kingly to Lyanna’s niece and a girl that had been wounded by his laxness.
“Such a sum brings you to tears? Fret not, my lady, your king can see to this at once. We will not ask the winners of the tournament to forfeit their winnings, but we can just offer them less in the first place. I’ll inform the council this very day. Will that please you?”
I like the idea of Joffrey’s Tower too. A monument to the son I didn’t raise properly, but at least his final deed in defense of his lady love will have a tangible mark on the world.
He was caught unprepared when Sansa rushed toward him and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Robert felt his heart melt a bit at her murmured thank-yous.
He patted her back and then gently extricated himself from her embrace.
“There, there, child. I’m honored by you wishing to name such a thing after my son. You would have been good for him.”
He nearly winced again; he didn’t want her to think she was going to be considered for Tommen. It was too early, only midday after all, to be too guarded with his words.
“He was gallant. I enjoyed singing with him. Would you like to hear about our stroll through the Godswood back in Winterfell? He said the most delightful…” Sansa trailed off. “Oh, forgive me, Your Grace, I know you must be busy. It is just… the queen and Joffrey’s siblings are filled with grief and do not want to speak about him with me. And my father is so busy, and I’m afraid my little sister was too eager to cheer for our brothers in the yard to like him and… no, I’m sorry, Your Grace, I should go.”
Robert hesitated. He really didn’t have anything to do with court not in session, and he was not planning to attend the Small Council meetings that day. There were no requirements of his time until the feast that evening. He would rather get drunk and maybe fuck one of the new girls Littlefinger had recommended, but it was hard to tell Stark women no. She was away from her mother for the first time, had unspeakable things happen to her, and no one to share her grief over his son with.
“Aye, I would love to hear more of your time with my son.”
They ended up talking for the better part of the hour and she even shyly asked if they could meet again. She would love to hear stories of her Aunt Lyanna, if he could recall any in the future. Her father was too grief-filled to speak of her much, but the older folk of Winterfell had all sorts of stories.
Gods, it is hard to think of her and not be filled with wrath and the urge to smash something. But this had been… pleasant. She saw the best in Joffrey. I never cared for singing myself, but it seemed to have won Sansa’s heart. I’ll find a match for the girl, even if I have to help with the dowry given Ned’s pinchpenny ways. And I can meet with her again. Perhaps it would do me good to remember the fonder times, when I could still ride and fight with the best of them. Gods I was strong, then. So alive and full of vigor. I could fight and then drink and fuck all night and still wake up at dawn ready to face any challenge.
***
Arya felt guilty for being so happy. A new world was opening up and all the while tragedy was happening around her. Why should she be pleased with life when her sister had been attacked and lost her chance to be queen and her brother was crippled by a fall? It felt wrong, but there were just so many exciting things happening. Her ability to warg into Nymeria filled her with glee. It was exciting and mysterious, and there were so many scents to experience. Yesterday, Sansa had guarded her body while she, in Nymeria’s skin, explored the godswood of the Red Keep.
The guards and serving staff still looked at the growing wolves warily, but ever since she had learned how to slip her skin, Nymeria was even more well behaved. Both Visha and her own wolf never growled or barked or did anything untoward toward anyone, so the sight of the wolf roaming was no longer cause for alarm.
Sansa says it helps that no one wants to get on the bad side of the new Hand. She says that position and power allow people to get away with things others wouldn’t be able to.
It wasn’t just her time as Nymeria that was exciting, but the lessons with her dancing master. Her bald instructor was teaching her the ways of the water dancer. Her first lesson had demonstrated how good he was, while the second had her beginning on a variety of strange exercises. She was doing one when Sansa saw her on the steps trying to balance on her toes.
“You shouldn’t do that on the stairs.”
“Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours.”
She had told Sansa about her training and her sister said that it was wonderful she found a hobby that would keep her active and fit. Arya didn’t like thinking about it as a ‘hobby’ but she didn’t want to argue the point with Sansa. The fact that her sister approved at all made her smile.
“But you are not a water dancer yet. If you slip, there’s a low but not insignificant chance you could hurt yourself tumbling down the stairs. Or if the timing is exceedingly poor you fall while some maidservant or guard is coming up the stairs and you hurt someone else. Balance practice can be done on level ground just as easily.”
“Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better.”
Sansa let loose a rare grin. “Yes, I have always found that to be true as well. But falling on the hard floor is a good enough lesson and does not risk the injury of others.”
Arya gave her a suspicious look. She had to be careful with what Sansa said. It always felt like Sansa was once again pressing her into a corner with the way she talked. Arya knew that Sansa was worried over her, but also knew that any such argument would not sway her, and so instead she was forcing Arya to either relent or say she didn’t care about harming others.
“I will listen for footsteps.”
Sansa gave her an appraising look. “Do I need to talk with Syrio? There are ways to make training safer. I’m sure he’s quite good at what he does, but he’s from Braavos and may not understand that potential serious injury to the Hand’s daughter can have troubling ramifications, especially so soon after my own experience.”
Arya huffed out an angry exhale and lost her balance and then caught herself.
Trying to argue with her never works.
“No, you don’t need to talk with him. I will practice elsewhere.”
Though a part of her really wondered how that would go. Syrio was exacting, precise, and strict. Sansa had outlasted their mother’s displeasure and cowed Septa Mordane. She felt uneasy at the idea of the two clashing. Better to just practice at some other set of steps where Sansa didn’t regularly travel through.
Setting that aside, she was very happy in King’s Landing. She missed her mother and Jon, and Robb, and Bran, and even little Rickon. Arya wondered if Shaggydog was getting properly trained.
Jon would see to it, I’m sure.
She was going to be a warrior woman, like the Mormont women. She would wield Needle like a water dancer and have Nymeria at her side. She’d be better than any knight! And at night she would slip her skin and explore an entire new set of sensations. Her sister would find someone else to marry and be happy. Bran would wake up and get better. Her family would be reunited one day too. Yes, everything was working out really well of late!