Heirs Part 6: Sisters
Title: Heirs Pt 6: Sisters
Author: PrettySiren/prettysirenx
Rating: MA
Genre(s): general, angst, romance
Spoilers: No spoilers -- just spec.
Disclaimer: ASoIaF characters belong to GRRM.
Warnings: Graphic smut. With Petyr and Sansa. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Notes: The is the sixth part of "Heirs". (Check my journal/links/posts for previous installments.) Unbeta'd. (Also, I fixed the spelling of "Nestor". Trusting spellcheck is a rookie mistake. Future installments will be spelled correctly.)
Sansa sat curled up naked in the softest chair in front of her fire. She watched the flames dance. She worshiped the old gods, and the new, but the red god was a mystery to her. She had only meant for Harry to die. Perhaps the red god thought her greedy and punished her by taking Sweetrobin. She rubbed the small baby bump, and hollowly wondered what else he might take. But then she thought of the perfumer; the woman had said the red god would give life in return. He has to.
Sansa had wandered the godswood, but without a weirwood to look upon her, and know her, she felt the old gods couldn’t see her. The oak tree that stood in proxy for a true heart-tree could not see into her heart. It was just a tree. Even its leaves didn’t rustle the same; how could it carry her thoughts?
So, she went to the sept. She begged the Father to judge her. She pled with the Maid to help her remember her girlish innocence. She asked the Crone for wisdom. She asked the Blacksmith for protection and the Warrior for strength. Finally, she asked the Mother for something that she had seen so little of, that she had given little of: mercy.
In King’s Landing, it was okay to be merciless. Few had shown her mercy. But Petyr kept her safe, he gave her life-he gave her her own life. There was no more crutch to cling to, no form of self-pity that made it okay to forget mercy. She left the sept after her prayer to the Mother, and she heard the leaves rustle. She knew that some god or another had heard her, at least.
And so, she sat in front of the fire, stroking her belly, and waiting.
A maid opened the door. “Lord Baelish, my lady.”
Sansa didn’t have to turn around to know Petyr wasn’t alone. But it wasn’t the soft, slippered footsteps of the maid. She heard boots, heeled boots, clicking on the wood beneath the fresh rushes, which did little to muffle the deliberate, confident step. No one stepped so confidently as Mya Stone.
But she did turn. It was the kind thing to do. She liked Mya, and she missed her these past few months while she’d been hired out to help people pass the mountain roads. But now that fall was in full force, none of the mountain roads were passable, and Sansa needed her here more than anywhere else.
Between them, Mya and Petyr carried a heavy trunk which they sat down near Sansa.
“My lady,” Mya blushed, looking down. She refused to look up as Sansa stood up and walked over to her.
“You are not a maid, Mya,” Sansa told her candidly. “You are a woman grown, older than me. You should not blush so to look upon my body. And I need you to know-“she took Mya’s rough, wind-burnt hand and placed it on her lower tummy where there was a definite bulge, more than mere feminine roundness.
“My lady,” Mya breathed. “I don’t-who?”
“Lord Petyr is the father.”
Mya looked to Petyr, wide-eyed. He smiled at her awe. He was always so amused by the moment when someone heard something for the first time-especially when it was shocking.
“My lady.” It was apparently all she could say.
“We did not act on our feelings until coming to the Gates of the Moon,” Sansa told her. “It was the night you brought me here, in fact.”
“You blushed,” Mya blurted. “When Randa asked about Littlefinger’s-oh seven hells. I’m babbling.”
Petyr laughed.
“As you can see, and feel, there was a reason I blushed,” Sansa told her seriously. “And my feelings took nobody more by surprise than they did my lord, I assure you.”
Mya laughed away her own tension. “It all makes so much sense now. I thought it was odd you were sweet on your own father, but now it makes so much sense.”
“So, do you see why I have need of you?” Sansa asked. “You are the only one I can trust. Lord Petyr was Alayne’s father, and that was an obstacle indeed. But perhaps not so much as the obstacle that faces Sansa Stark; I am still married to Tyrion Lannister.”
“By all accounts, he is not dead.” Petyr added.
“All we can hope for is an annulment. And soon. But my condition must remain secret until Lord Petyr and I are married. And you are the only woman I trust in all the Vale. Will you do me the honor of being my lady-in-waiting?”
Mya let out a bark of laughter, not unfamiliar to Sansa’s ears. She’d heard that same laugh for the first time two years before she ever met Mya.
“Our fathers were best friends,” Sansa told her, seriously, pulling her hand to her breast. “They were raised as brothers by Jon Arryn. Think back. You remember them raising all seven hells at the Eyrie when you were a babe. Just as they were friends and brothers, you and I are destined to be friends and sisters. The road ahead is not an easy one. I am not just Lord of the Vale; I’m Queen in the North. And I need a loyal friend by my side. I would have you as that friend, Mya Stone.”
Mya’s hard face softened for a moment. “Aye. I remember our fathers as boys. We may be girls, but we’re all they have left now. Of course, my lady-my queen.”
Sansa smiled. “You are to be knighted tomorrow. This trunk contains not only new garments for me, but for you as well. There are leathers as well as dresses-you must dress as you please. Tomorrow is an important day.”
She knelt down and opened the trunk. It had various compartments, organized into frocks and small clothes for each of them, capes, hoods, gloves, and leathers for Mya. She pulled out a new golden silken nightgown for herself and slipped it on. It accommodated her larger breasts and fell loosely over her tummy; it would grow with her.
“I haven’t been able to dress this evening,” she said, more animated now. “My tummy wouldn’t fit my old nightclothes. And this,” she pulled out pale blue satin gown, “this is my crowning achievement to date. I designed it myself, as well as argued with the seamstress over it. She said that no one in King’s Landing wore waists this high, that she’d never made one like such. But therein lays the cleverness: The satin skirt is so voluminous that people will only see the smallness of the belt around my ribs. The seamstress said she’d never seen anything like it, and dared to say she never would again. But I am Queen, so what else could she say? I’m having five more made in the same ilk.”
She slipped it over her nightgown and pulled the belt on to show Mya.
“It’s lovely,” Mya whispered. She’d probably never seen anything so grand.
“I used to make all of my own clothes back home in Winterfell, but doing so now would’ve drawn too much attention; alas, I resigned to designing them.” She turned to Petyr. “You are very quiet, my love.”
“It’s only because I’m caught up in how beautiful you are, my Sansa.”
Mya’s eyes widened once more. “I’m going to go, if I have your leave.” Sansa nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, my-your grace.”
Petyr scarcely waited until she was gone from the room before carefully removing Sansa’s new dress.
“I thought you said it was beautiful,” Sansa smirked.
“It is,” he insisted, kissing her. “But it is nothing to the woman wearing it.”
“Oh, Petyr,” she said, nuzzling into his neck. She hugged him tight. He was her everything. He’d held her just as tightly when she cried as when she was in ecstasy. Just to smell him and she was home. He was her home.
He ran his hand up her curved stomach. She smiled.
“I’m not exactly an expert in this,” she said, “but I think I’m getting quite big.”
“Maybe he’ll be a Braavosi titan like my great-grandfather,” Petyr murmured. “Gods know I wasn’t.”
“Carrying a titan is quite daunting,” she said.
“But you are a queen now, my lady.” He reminded her. “You can do anything.” His grey-green eyes were so deep and sincere tonight; she would drink them in.
She ran her lips up his Adam’s apple. “You’re right.” She pushed him on her bed and pinned him there, straddling him. “Maybe I’ll give our son a twin tonight.”
Sansa had her maids all in a flurry the next morning. They ran back and forth between her chamber and Mya’s, bathing them (which was apparently quite a trial in Mya’s case), and dressing them. Sansa wore her new blue dress and her chambermaids were happy to see the back of her when her ladies arrived followed her to the throne room, where she would hold court for the first time.
The throne room of the Gates of the Moon was perhaps smaller than that of the Eyrie, but it was cheerier. The autumn sun shone through a skylight, illuminating them all, making them all glittery and magical. Sansa fleetingly thought: this is how it was always supposed to be. All eyes were on her as she walked up to the throne, normally occupied by Lord Royce, but today offered to her. It was all very official. If she had not spent years watching her father, she would not know what to do. But he had treated his people plainly and fairly; she would do the same. And where she was innocent and honest, Petyr was shrewd and calculating. He balanced her out perfectly. She dreamed of the day he would be her consort proper; though, to her delight, she saw he sat on a smaller throne just to her right of hers. She stood in front of the throne beside him and faced her new people, the people of the Vale.
Lord Nestor Royce cleared his throat and bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the throne room: “In the name of Sansa Stark, the first of her name; Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; Rightful Queen in the North and Lady of the Vale; this first session of court is declared open.”
Sansa’s heart beat a little harder. Her new titles had not been discussed with her. But strangely, she did not mind them. If anything, they made her feel more solemn and right. She sat down on her throne and spread her skirts neatly around her. She gazed at the hundreds of faces crowded into the room.
“People of the Vale, you have raised me up. You have promised me my birthright. In turn, I promise to reclaim what is rightfully yours. Now, it is my turn to protect you. Now, it is my turn to avenge your losses. For all you have done for me, I will do for you in kind. I will be just; I will be fair. I am my father’s daughter. He was raised by Jon Arryn alongside Robert Baratheon. Jon Arryn and my father were brothers by marriage. I say to you that the Vale and the North are true brothers, as true as Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. As queen, I intend to treat both of my realms equally and separately. You will not lose your identity. You will retain your independence. And I vow on this day to never ask of you anything more than I would ask of my own brothers, were they alive today. All I ask is that you swear your fealty to me, your liege lord, and I will protect you as my bannermen. Then, we will be family, brothers and sisters. And we will protect our own. That’s what you do in winter, my father always said. You protect your own. And winter is coming.”
“Winter is coming,” the crowd answered.
“Who here swears fealty?” called Lord Royce.
Every man and a few female heads of house lined up. Each one bent the knee and solemnly pledged their allegiance to their queen. Petyr carefully weighed his pride, though it welled up in his gut to tremendous amounts-he felt he could burst with it. He kept his face as solemn as his lady’s. His eyes smiled, but his lips did not meet them.
Sansa smiled when they were done. “And now I would make some appointments.”
Petyr stood up and quickly knelt in front of her. “I beg pardon, your grace.”
“Yes?” Sansa’s heart fluttered; this was another move she wasn’t aware of. But that was the way he wanted it, she supposed. He always aimed for a natural affect.
“Now that you have come into your own, it is redundant for me to be Protector of the Vale. You are the Vale’s one and only protector now.”
This elicited excited whispers from the crowd.
“I hereby relinquish my claim, and swear fealty to you as Lord Paramount of the Trident and,” he smirked for effect, “as Lord of the Fingers. I realize my power is marginal at best, but I offer you all that I have.”
“All that you have is enough,” Sansa said softly. “You are very welcome, Lord Baelish. Your guidance these past years has been invaluable to me. I would have you on my Small Council as Master of Coin; you can advise me on all things fiscal,” she said, trying to beat down the burgeoning giggle in her throat. “I fear I am a novice in that regard.”
“As your grace commands,” he said, opening his arms with a smile-a smile that met his eyes.
“I would make some more appointments,” Sansa said, growing regal once more. “Lord Nestor Royce. I would name you Master of Laws. Coleman, you will naturally serve as Grand Maester. Lothor Brune. You will be Commander of the Queensguard. We have no ships at present, as we have no whispers. I will fill those positions when they become necessary.”
“And who will be your Hand, your grace?” asked Lord Royce.
“My father, Lord Eddard Stark, was Hand of the King. I saw firsthand what that did to him. I won’t inflict that on another. I will rule in my own right under the advice of my Small Council. I will never pass along my duties to others. I am queen.” There was silence. “And there are two more matters to settle today. Lothor Brune, step forward.”
Brune did as she commanded and bent his knee.
“I will require a sword,” Sansa said. Lord Royce’s squire supplied one. It was heavy, but Sansa refused to let on. She held it steady and dipped the point to Brune’s right shoulder, and said the words. Then, she tipped it to his left, and said the words. She withdrew. “Arise, Ser Lothor Brune, and take your place amongst your fellow council members.”
People murmured their awe over Brune’s knighting, but no qualms were raised. She knew there wouldn’t be any at all, if she made it through the next ten minutes.
“Mya Stone!” she called abruptly. Her voice rang through the throne room. The doors flung open and Mya strode in; confident and strong, she chose to combine those two aspects of her nature in her clothing: she wore both leathers and a dress. Her corset was deep blue leader and cut low, exposing the tops of her surprisingly pretty bosom. It had matching sleeves sewn in, giving her a feminine yet warrior-like appearance. Underneath, she wore a blood-red dress that looked pretty with her coal black hair. She was a rare beauty, both boyish and feminine; for a split second, Sansa thought of Arya, but pushed the thought away and focused solely on Mya.
“Mya Stone,” she repeated, when Mya knelt before her. She tipped the sword to her right shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” She tipped the blade to her left shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” She moved the sword again. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the young and the innocent.” Swapping shoulders again, she said, firmly, “In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to act with wisdom.” She finished with the words of the Blacksmith and the Stranger, and said, “Rise, Lady Mya Stone, eldest child of Robert Baratheon, first of his name. I charge you to reclaim your birthright, to be my friend, to be my sister. You will serve as a special advisor on my Small Council. There may be few ships in the Vale, but there are many roads, winding roads, and no one knows them better than you.”
“I am honored, you grace,” Mya bowed.
“Winter is coming,” Sansa told her subjects firmly. “And I was raised to believe that we stick together when the wind howls and the snow falls. Let us unite from this day until the end of days.”
The throne room erupted into thunderous applause.
Author: PrettySiren/prettysirenx
Rating: MA
Genre(s): general, angst, romance
Spoilers: No spoilers -- just spec.
Disclaimer: ASoIaF characters belong to GRRM.
Warnings: Graphic smut. With Petyr and Sansa. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Notes: The is the sixth part of "Heirs". (Check my journal/links/posts for previous installments.) Unbeta'd. (Also, I fixed the spelling of "Nestor". Trusting spellcheck is a rookie mistake. Future installments will be spelled correctly.)
Sansa sat curled up naked in the softest chair in front of her fire. She watched the flames dance. She worshiped the old gods, and the new, but the red god was a mystery to her. She had only meant for Harry to die. Perhaps the red god thought her greedy and punished her by taking Sweetrobin. She rubbed the small baby bump, and hollowly wondered what else he might take. But then she thought of the perfumer; the woman had said the red god would give life in return. He has to.
Sansa had wandered the godswood, but without a weirwood to look upon her, and know her, she felt the old gods couldn’t see her. The oak tree that stood in proxy for a true heart-tree could not see into her heart. It was just a tree. Even its leaves didn’t rustle the same; how could it carry her thoughts?
So, she went to the sept. She begged the Father to judge her. She pled with the Maid to help her remember her girlish innocence. She asked the Crone for wisdom. She asked the Blacksmith for protection and the Warrior for strength. Finally, she asked the Mother for something that she had seen so little of, that she had given little of: mercy.
In King’s Landing, it was okay to be merciless. Few had shown her mercy. But Petyr kept her safe, he gave her life-he gave her her own life. There was no more crutch to cling to, no form of self-pity that made it okay to forget mercy. She left the sept after her prayer to the Mother, and she heard the leaves rustle. She knew that some god or another had heard her, at least.
And so, she sat in front of the fire, stroking her belly, and waiting.
A maid opened the door. “Lord Baelish, my lady.”
Sansa didn’t have to turn around to know Petyr wasn’t alone. But it wasn’t the soft, slippered footsteps of the maid. She heard boots, heeled boots, clicking on the wood beneath the fresh rushes, which did little to muffle the deliberate, confident step. No one stepped so confidently as Mya Stone.
But she did turn. It was the kind thing to do. She liked Mya, and she missed her these past few months while she’d been hired out to help people pass the mountain roads. But now that fall was in full force, none of the mountain roads were passable, and Sansa needed her here more than anywhere else.
Between them, Mya and Petyr carried a heavy trunk which they sat down near Sansa.
“My lady,” Mya blushed, looking down. She refused to look up as Sansa stood up and walked over to her.
“You are not a maid, Mya,” Sansa told her candidly. “You are a woman grown, older than me. You should not blush so to look upon my body. And I need you to know-“she took Mya’s rough, wind-burnt hand and placed it on her lower tummy where there was a definite bulge, more than mere feminine roundness.
“My lady,” Mya breathed. “I don’t-who?”
“Lord Petyr is the father.”
Mya looked to Petyr, wide-eyed. He smiled at her awe. He was always so amused by the moment when someone heard something for the first time-especially when it was shocking.
“My lady.” It was apparently all she could say.
“We did not act on our feelings until coming to the Gates of the Moon,” Sansa told her. “It was the night you brought me here, in fact.”
“You blushed,” Mya blurted. “When Randa asked about Littlefinger’s-oh seven hells. I’m babbling.”
Petyr laughed.
“As you can see, and feel, there was a reason I blushed,” Sansa told her seriously. “And my feelings took nobody more by surprise than they did my lord, I assure you.”
Mya laughed away her own tension. “It all makes so much sense now. I thought it was odd you were sweet on your own father, but now it makes so much sense.”
“So, do you see why I have need of you?” Sansa asked. “You are the only one I can trust. Lord Petyr was Alayne’s father, and that was an obstacle indeed. But perhaps not so much as the obstacle that faces Sansa Stark; I am still married to Tyrion Lannister.”
“By all accounts, he is not dead.” Petyr added.
“All we can hope for is an annulment. And soon. But my condition must remain secret until Lord Petyr and I are married. And you are the only woman I trust in all the Vale. Will you do me the honor of being my lady-in-waiting?”
Mya let out a bark of laughter, not unfamiliar to Sansa’s ears. She’d heard that same laugh for the first time two years before she ever met Mya.
“Our fathers were best friends,” Sansa told her, seriously, pulling her hand to her breast. “They were raised as brothers by Jon Arryn. Think back. You remember them raising all seven hells at the Eyrie when you were a babe. Just as they were friends and brothers, you and I are destined to be friends and sisters. The road ahead is not an easy one. I am not just Lord of the Vale; I’m Queen in the North. And I need a loyal friend by my side. I would have you as that friend, Mya Stone.”
Mya’s hard face softened for a moment. “Aye. I remember our fathers as boys. We may be girls, but we’re all they have left now. Of course, my lady-my queen.”
Sansa smiled. “You are to be knighted tomorrow. This trunk contains not only new garments for me, but for you as well. There are leathers as well as dresses-you must dress as you please. Tomorrow is an important day.”
She knelt down and opened the trunk. It had various compartments, organized into frocks and small clothes for each of them, capes, hoods, gloves, and leathers for Mya. She pulled out a new golden silken nightgown for herself and slipped it on. It accommodated her larger breasts and fell loosely over her tummy; it would grow with her.
“I haven’t been able to dress this evening,” she said, more animated now. “My tummy wouldn’t fit my old nightclothes. And this,” she pulled out pale blue satin gown, “this is my crowning achievement to date. I designed it myself, as well as argued with the seamstress over it. She said that no one in King’s Landing wore waists this high, that she’d never made one like such. But therein lays the cleverness: The satin skirt is so voluminous that people will only see the smallness of the belt around my ribs. The seamstress said she’d never seen anything like it, and dared to say she never would again. But I am Queen, so what else could she say? I’m having five more made in the same ilk.”
She slipped it over her nightgown and pulled the belt on to show Mya.
“It’s lovely,” Mya whispered. She’d probably never seen anything so grand.
“I used to make all of my own clothes back home in Winterfell, but doing so now would’ve drawn too much attention; alas, I resigned to designing them.” She turned to Petyr. “You are very quiet, my love.”
“It’s only because I’m caught up in how beautiful you are, my Sansa.”
Mya’s eyes widened once more. “I’m going to go, if I have your leave.” Sansa nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, my-your grace.”
Petyr scarcely waited until she was gone from the room before carefully removing Sansa’s new dress.
“I thought you said it was beautiful,” Sansa smirked.
“It is,” he insisted, kissing her. “But it is nothing to the woman wearing it.”
“Oh, Petyr,” she said, nuzzling into his neck. She hugged him tight. He was her everything. He’d held her just as tightly when she cried as when she was in ecstasy. Just to smell him and she was home. He was her home.
He ran his hand up her curved stomach. She smiled.
“I’m not exactly an expert in this,” she said, “but I think I’m getting quite big.”
“Maybe he’ll be a Braavosi titan like my great-grandfather,” Petyr murmured. “Gods know I wasn’t.”
“Carrying a titan is quite daunting,” she said.
“But you are a queen now, my lady.” He reminded her. “You can do anything.” His grey-green eyes were so deep and sincere tonight; she would drink them in.
She ran her lips up his Adam’s apple. “You’re right.” She pushed him on her bed and pinned him there, straddling him. “Maybe I’ll give our son a twin tonight.”
Sansa had her maids all in a flurry the next morning. They ran back and forth between her chamber and Mya’s, bathing them (which was apparently quite a trial in Mya’s case), and dressing them. Sansa wore her new blue dress and her chambermaids were happy to see the back of her when her ladies arrived followed her to the throne room, where she would hold court for the first time.
The throne room of the Gates of the Moon was perhaps smaller than that of the Eyrie, but it was cheerier. The autumn sun shone through a skylight, illuminating them all, making them all glittery and magical. Sansa fleetingly thought: this is how it was always supposed to be. All eyes were on her as she walked up to the throne, normally occupied by Lord Royce, but today offered to her. It was all very official. If she had not spent years watching her father, she would not know what to do. But he had treated his people plainly and fairly; she would do the same. And where she was innocent and honest, Petyr was shrewd and calculating. He balanced her out perfectly. She dreamed of the day he would be her consort proper; though, to her delight, she saw he sat on a smaller throne just to her right of hers. She stood in front of the throne beside him and faced her new people, the people of the Vale.
Lord Nestor Royce cleared his throat and bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the throne room: “In the name of Sansa Stark, the first of her name; Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; Rightful Queen in the North and Lady of the Vale; this first session of court is declared open.”
Sansa’s heart beat a little harder. Her new titles had not been discussed with her. But strangely, she did not mind them. If anything, they made her feel more solemn and right. She sat down on her throne and spread her skirts neatly around her. She gazed at the hundreds of faces crowded into the room.
“People of the Vale, you have raised me up. You have promised me my birthright. In turn, I promise to reclaim what is rightfully yours. Now, it is my turn to protect you. Now, it is my turn to avenge your losses. For all you have done for me, I will do for you in kind. I will be just; I will be fair. I am my father’s daughter. He was raised by Jon Arryn alongside Robert Baratheon. Jon Arryn and my father were brothers by marriage. I say to you that the Vale and the North are true brothers, as true as Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. As queen, I intend to treat both of my realms equally and separately. You will not lose your identity. You will retain your independence. And I vow on this day to never ask of you anything more than I would ask of my own brothers, were they alive today. All I ask is that you swear your fealty to me, your liege lord, and I will protect you as my bannermen. Then, we will be family, brothers and sisters. And we will protect our own. That’s what you do in winter, my father always said. You protect your own. And winter is coming.”
“Winter is coming,” the crowd answered.
“Who here swears fealty?” called Lord Royce.
Every man and a few female heads of house lined up. Each one bent the knee and solemnly pledged their allegiance to their queen. Petyr carefully weighed his pride, though it welled up in his gut to tremendous amounts-he felt he could burst with it. He kept his face as solemn as his lady’s. His eyes smiled, but his lips did not meet them.
Sansa smiled when they were done. “And now I would make some appointments.”
Petyr stood up and quickly knelt in front of her. “I beg pardon, your grace.”
“Yes?” Sansa’s heart fluttered; this was another move she wasn’t aware of. But that was the way he wanted it, she supposed. He always aimed for a natural affect.
“Now that you have come into your own, it is redundant for me to be Protector of the Vale. You are the Vale’s one and only protector now.”
This elicited excited whispers from the crowd.
“I hereby relinquish my claim, and swear fealty to you as Lord Paramount of the Trident and,” he smirked for effect, “as Lord of the Fingers. I realize my power is marginal at best, but I offer you all that I have.”
“All that you have is enough,” Sansa said softly. “You are very welcome, Lord Baelish. Your guidance these past years has been invaluable to me. I would have you on my Small Council as Master of Coin; you can advise me on all things fiscal,” she said, trying to beat down the burgeoning giggle in her throat. “I fear I am a novice in that regard.”
“As your grace commands,” he said, opening his arms with a smile-a smile that met his eyes.
“I would make some more appointments,” Sansa said, growing regal once more. “Lord Nestor Royce. I would name you Master of Laws. Coleman, you will naturally serve as Grand Maester. Lothor Brune. You will be Commander of the Queensguard. We have no ships at present, as we have no whispers. I will fill those positions when they become necessary.”
“And who will be your Hand, your grace?” asked Lord Royce.
“My father, Lord Eddard Stark, was Hand of the King. I saw firsthand what that did to him. I won’t inflict that on another. I will rule in my own right under the advice of my Small Council. I will never pass along my duties to others. I am queen.” There was silence. “And there are two more matters to settle today. Lothor Brune, step forward.”
Brune did as she commanded and bent his knee.
“I will require a sword,” Sansa said. Lord Royce’s squire supplied one. It was heavy, but Sansa refused to let on. She held it steady and dipped the point to Brune’s right shoulder, and said the words. Then, she tipped it to his left, and said the words. She withdrew. “Arise, Ser Lothor Brune, and take your place amongst your fellow council members.”
People murmured their awe over Brune’s knighting, but no qualms were raised. She knew there wouldn’t be any at all, if she made it through the next ten minutes.
“Mya Stone!” she called abruptly. Her voice rang through the throne room. The doors flung open and Mya strode in; confident and strong, she chose to combine those two aspects of her nature in her clothing: she wore both leathers and a dress. Her corset was deep blue leader and cut low, exposing the tops of her surprisingly pretty bosom. It had matching sleeves sewn in, giving her a feminine yet warrior-like appearance. Underneath, she wore a blood-red dress that looked pretty with her coal black hair. She was a rare beauty, both boyish and feminine; for a split second, Sansa thought of Arya, but pushed the thought away and focused solely on Mya.
“Mya Stone,” she repeated, when Mya knelt before her. She tipped the sword to her right shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” She tipped the blade to her left shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” She moved the sword again. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the young and the innocent.” Swapping shoulders again, she said, firmly, “In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to act with wisdom.” She finished with the words of the Blacksmith and the Stranger, and said, “Rise, Lady Mya Stone, eldest child of Robert Baratheon, first of his name. I charge you to reclaim your birthright, to be my friend, to be my sister. You will serve as a special advisor on my Small Council. There may be few ships in the Vale, but there are many roads, winding roads, and no one knows them better than you.”
“I am honored, you grace,” Mya bowed.
“Winter is coming,” Sansa told her subjects firmly. “And I was raised to believe that we stick together when the wind howls and the snow falls. Let us unite from this day until the end of days.”
The throne room erupted into thunderous applause.