The usurper Robert has surrendered!"
The news arrived in Meereen with a tattered merchant ship.
At first, it was just whispers in the port taverns, but soon, the news spread through the pyramids like a plague.
A mutiny on Dragonstone, countless nobles bending the knee to Viserys Targaryen!
Usurper Robert Baratheon, the king, was personally detained by his brother Renly, and Ned Stark, the Warden of the North, also became a prisoner.
When the news of this bloody coup reached their temporary residence, Sansa Stark was sitting by the window, embroidering a delicate winter rose.
The needle pricked her fingertip, and a drop of crimson blood fell onto the white silk, quickly spreading like a death flower suddenly blooming in the snow.
She looked up, seeing the helpless face of her brother, Bran Stark.
House Stark, this once impregnable stronghold of the North, had completely collapsed starting today.
At that moment, a chill crept up Sansa Stark's spine.
She knew that no one in this world could save her anymore!
She gently put down her embroidery, stood up, and the rustling sound of her silk dress was exceptionally clear in the dead silent room.
"Lord Varys,"
Her voice was unexpectedly steady, carrying a calmness unsuited to her age, "Let me go."
Hearing this, Varys, the Spider, looked at her sharply, his dark pupils filled with incredible shock: "Sansa, do you know what you're saying?"
"What can I do, my lord?"
Sansa Stark interrupted him without mercy.
Her gaze swept over every corner of the room, "Wait for the victors to execute us? Or hope Arya's Needle can contend with Viserys Targaryen's dragons?"
Her words were like a sharp knife, dissecting the cruel reality.
"For House Stark, someone has to do something."
She said no more, turning and walking towards her room, her steps elegant and firm, like walking towards a predetermined sacrificial dance.
Hearing this, Varys, the Spider, frowned with a pained expression.
In his eyes, Sansa Stark was just an innocent young girl, yet at this moment, she had to shoulder the responsibility for the family's survival.
Varys had always worried that Viserys Targaryen would implicate nobles who supported the usurper, just like his father, thereby igniting another bloody storm.
So he had been trying to persuade Sansa Stark to compromise.
Since ancient times, even heroes find it hard to resist the allure of beauty!
If Viserys Targaryen could truly enjoy "her," relying on this fleeting romance, House Stark might be the first to be shown mercy!
"It's just a pity for this girl,"
Varys sighed.
As the legitimate daughter of the Duke of the North, she was forced to do the most disgraceful thing—desperately climb into Viserys Targaryen's dragon bed to beg for her family's pardon.
But Sansa Stark had no other choice.
She chose the most "ladylike" long dress, carefully combed her mother's auburn hair, letting it cascade down her shoulders like a flowing copper waterfall.
She even used the last bit of perfume, its scent sweet and delicate.
As she stood before the magnificent and cold door of Viserys Targaryen's temporary residence, she could even hear her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
"Come on, you can do it!"
"At least this young king is handsome!"
She took a deep breath, pressing all her fear, shame, and the softness belonging to "Sansa Stark" deep into her now calm blue eyes.
The next moment, the door opened.
Viserys Targaryen was sitting by the fireplace, using a ruby to tinker with the magic book left by Melisandre, the Red Priestess.
He had the Targaryen Family's characteristic silver hair and purple eyes.
But when he looked at Sansa Stark, who had dressed up meticulously and walked in, Viserys Targaryen's eyes narrowed slightly, full of caution.
"Little bird of House Stark,"
He was a little surprised, "Are you lost?"
Listening to Viserys Targaryen's question, Sansa Stark did not flinch.
She knew she only had one chance.
She walked forward, stopping a few steps away from Viserys Targaryen, and slightly tilted her face up, letting the firelight perfectly outline her young, beautiful face and slender neck.
Her gaze was no longer the innocent and naive look of the past, but infused with a hazy, timidly seductive glint, like a maiden who had stumbled into forbidden territory, both afraid and irresistibly drawn to the presence before her.
"Your Grace,"
She spoke, her voice soft as a feather's brush, with a perfectly placed tremor, "I… I have come to seek your protection."
Hearing this, Viserys Targaryen raised an eyebrow, utterly surprised.
Clearly, he didn't believe the girl's words: "Protection? House Stark needs to seek protection from Targaryen? That's new."
"We all heard about what happened on Dragonstone."
Sansa Stark lowered her eyes at the opportune moment, her long, curled eyelashes trembling like butterfly wings, concealing all true emotions in her gaze.
"My father, he had no choice. But now, everything is different."
She looked up again, her gaze bravely meeting Viserys Targaryen's, "You are the true king, and we… we of House Stark are willing to atone."
The next moment, she took a small step forward, her dark red skirt brushing against the clean floor.
She made no wanton gestures like a harlot, but every subtle posture: the slightly open neckline, her slightly helpless hands clasped in front of her, and that look mixed with admiration and fear, all formed a silent, more sophisticated seduction.
She was playing the role he would most likely be interested in: a noble but helpless maiden from a rival family, "overwhelmed" by his power and his return as king.
She was gambling, betting on Viserys Targaryen's deep-seated vanity and his desire to conquer women.
Viserys Targaryen stood up gravely and slowly walked towards her.
He reached out and used his slender fingertips to lift her chin, forcing her to be fully exposed to his gaze.
His eyes were sharp, as if he wanted to peel back her carefully constructed disguise and see the true fear and calculation beneath.
Sansa Stark, on the other hand, forced herself not to tremble, even trying to gather a hazy moisture in her blue eyes, like a startled fawn, yet with a desperate submission.
After a long while, the doubt on Viserys Targaryen's face finally disappeared.
"Very good,"
He said in a low voice, with a slightly awkward rasp, "So, do you confirm that you possess the purest blood of the direwolf of House Stark?"
Hearing this, Sansa Stark's heart completely sank.
She prided herself on her considerable beauty and had been meticulously trained by a courtesan Varys had hired at great expense.
She tried to use her freedom, her dignity, and perhaps many other unknown things, to buy a glimmer of hope for her family.
However, in front of this young and accomplished Dragon King, it seemed to have no effect at all.
"Yes, I am the legitimate daughter of House Stark, so I should have the blood of the direwolf!"
Sansa Stark's face was ashen.
She knew that when usurper Robert and her father Ned were escorted to Meereen to be beheaded, it would be the end of her family!
"Your 'protection,' I accept it."
Viserys Targaryen suddenly smiled thoughtfully.
Hearing this, Sansa Stark's eyelids trembled violently, and a look of joy appeared on her face: "Did Viserys Targaryen agree to her?"
Swish—
Without the slightest hesitation, as the last velvet slip fell from Sansa's shoulders, the air seemed to freeze at that moment.
The flickering candlelight flowed uncovered over her young body, her skin as fair as the first snow of Winterfell, with the delicate glow unique to a virgin, her subtly rising curves outlining a youthful yet breathtaking silhouette.
"I hope I can satisfy you, Your Grace!"
Sansa Stark, her face flushed with shame, pleaded in a low voice.
The room instantly fell silent, with only the faint crackle of the candlewick and the clearly audible breathing between the two.
Viserys Targaryen slowly put down his wine glass.
His gaze slowly swept over every inch of Sansa's exposed skin, from her slightly trembling shoulders, to her slender waist, to her bare feet slightly curled from cold and fear.
He stood up, not approaching immediately, but walked a small step around Sansa Stark, as if examining some priceless treasure.
"Very well…"
Viserys Targaryen finally stopped in front of her, close enough for Sansa to smell his faint masculine scent.
He put down the magic book he was holding, extended his hand, and held it above Sansa's smooth arm, feeling the warmth emanating from her trembling body, mixed with fear and resolve.
Inside the room, candlelight flickered all night, half of the expensive silk draperies were torn down, messy and damp, and even the unfinished glass of wine on the table was knocked over, flowing uncontrollably, soaking into the expensive wool carpet, leaving a large, irregular, dark, wet stain.