As Sansa Stark watched the first southern snows fall from her window, the messenger finally arrived. It had taken her longer than she thought, but Cersei Lannister had finally sent her the cordial invite. “A cheap power play,” Sansa told Brienne, when the handmaiden bearing the news had left. “She thought she was unnerving by not speaking to me since I arrived in the capital. Little did she know it gave me time to place my pawns.”
“I still do not approve of what you did with Ser Jaime,” Brienne told her, as they walked toward Cersei’s chambers, Ghost beside them. “Passions are not to play games with.”
“They are not,” Sansa said. The thought did not fill her with pride, but she steeled herself soon enough. “You cannot survive in King’s Landing if you do not play the game. I play the game as honorably as I can. I know I will not live long if I have no use for anyone, but I do not use gold, empty promises or my family name to make myself useful. This world has not been kind to its people, and broken people have many songs to sing. I do them the dignity of listening, when others would rather walk away. It is the most humane way to make quick allies. A good ear, a deliverance of trust – that connects people more than power or profit.”
The three had reached her chambers by then. Sansa strode in, and while Cersei raised an arched eyebrow at the full-grown direwolf that walked in with her, neither of them addressed the subject further.
“Sansa, little dove,” Cersei said in her best attempts of a person sounding delighted. “I apologize for not being available sooner. I hope the talk of war has not worried you?”
“Of course not,” she said casually. “After my brother and Queen Daenerys made peace, I am perhaps the safest person in King’s Landing. That, I suppose, is more than I can say for you.”
Cersei’s nostrils flared, and the Mountain beside her moved a little, but she maintained her composure. “You always were a clever girl,” she said. “You are also clever enough to know that this war can go two ways. If it goes my way, I shall honor my promise to Lord Baelish and send you back to Winterfell. If it does not… I hope you will let Queen Daenerys know of the kind hospitality we have served you at the capital.”
Sansa openly laughed. “Is someone frightened after the Roast of Riverrun?” she said. “To be sure, when Queen Daenerys storms the front gates, I will be the first to tell her of your kind hospitality. Of the first time I stepped foot in the capital, when my father was beheaded and my sister forced to flee. That ought to bring some very swift justice, should it not, Cersei?”
Her tone was much flatter now. “You will call me Your Grace,” she said, “and you would do well to remember that my men outnumber your northern cunts fifty-to-one. I can snap my fingers and hold you hostage. Mayhaps that will slow down the dragon bitch.”
“Back to blunter ways, are we?” Sansa replied coolly. “I appreciate the honesty. I shall return it with some of my own. You can snap your fingers,” she said, “and watch a pretty picture I paint unfold before your eyes. It will start with your Lord Hand Littlefinger and his five-thousand Arryns turning against you. That may be a blow you can absorb, if Mhaegen would not instigate riots among the Righteous Saviors at the same time. Surely you cannot handle a war inside the Crownlands as well as outside?”
Cersei only seemed mildly worried, but Sansa still had her final hand to play. “Nobody likes to fight a war alone. It is what you have been doing all this while. Mayhaps you thought you could handle it, as long as at least one person stood beside you. But is Jaime’s recent behavior making you rethink that?”
“There is no need for this, Lady Sansa,” Brienne whispered quickly, as Cersei’s eyes widened in horror. Sansa plunged on recklessly. “He talks to me,” she told Cersei. “Probably because he needs someone to talk to, so he does not feel less alone. There have been issues between the two of you, but maybe you think they will heal in time. They may, I grant you, but snap those fingers and they never will. I imagine he would react poorly if you move against the woman he swore to protect.” She paused, waiting for the words to settle. “Give the command, Cersei,” she said, finally, “and I swear to cast you down and take all you hold dear.”
It’s all right, she kept telling herself, as Sansa looked at her shocked face. Even if the Mountain were to attack her now, she had Ghost to pounce on him and Brienne in complete chainmail besides.
When Cersei spoke, it was in tones thin. “You will call me Your Grace,” she feebly reiterated, realizing how tightly her hands were tied.
Sansa boldly placed her fingers on Cersei’s desk, leaning in slightly, looking in her frightened green eyes. “When the dragon sinks its teeth between your breasts, Your Grace, remember how beautiful the snows were tonight. That may make you feel less alone.”
*
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