The air in the Queen's chambers was thick with the scent of cloying incense and expensive wine. Cersei Lannister sat perfectly poised, the firelight catching the gold in her hair, while Sansa stood before her, trembling with a practiced fragility.
Cersei leaned forward, her expression a mask of maternal concern. "Don't be in fear, child," she said, her voice like warm silk. "I know how frightening this must seem, but you are among friends here."
Sansa's breath hitched. She let her shoulders shake just enough to look convincing. "I... I don't know what is going on, Your Grace," she stammered, twisting her fingers in her silk skirts. "Can you please just let my father go? There must be some mistake."
Cersei sighed, a sound of staged disappointment. "Your father has done a terrible thing, Sansa. He tried to steal the birthright of my son, Joffrey. He tried to take the crown from its rightful heir. It is treason, pure and simple."
Birthright, Sansa thought, the word tasting like ash in her mind.
Deep in her mind, Alaric Ward's voice returned, cold and steady. Only hours earlier, before the gold cloaks came, it had filled her head like a second heartbeat — not quite a whisper, more a presence she could not ignore.
"Expect a grieving mother," Words that echoed in her mind but she knew who's voice it was. "Talk of birthrights. Loyalty. Duty. The goal is simple: use you to trap your brother. Be the frightened little bird. Let her think the situation is in her control."
It had been jarring then—how could he send words directly into her mind was a mystery she didn't have the energy to solve— and she trusts him.
"I want to help you, Sansa," Cersei continued, sliding a piece of parchment and a quill across the table. "But you must help me. Write to your brother Robb. Tell him to come to King's Landing to swear his fealty to the King. If he proves his loyalty, I can convince Joffrey to be merciful to your father."
Cersei paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And tell him he must bring that man... that Alaric Ward... along with him. The Crown has questions for him."
Sansa looked down at the parchment to hide the sneer threatening to break through her mask.
Questions for Alaric? You have no idea what you're inviting into your city, she thought.
"I... I will do whatever you ask," Sansa sobbed quietly. She took the quill, her hand shaking as she penned the lies Cersei dictated, her script elegant and desperate.
Once the wax seal was pressed into the paper, Cersei smiled—a thin. "You've done well, little girl. Guards, escort the Lady Sansa back to her chambers. See that she is kept comfortable."
As the heavy doors of the Queen's ballroom closed behind her, Sansa kept her head down, her eyes wet with fake tears.
Though she did not fear for her own life — not with Nyx beside her — she could not say the same for Arya or her father. Somewhere in this city, they were alone, surrounded by Lannister swords. Even if she escaped with Nyx, there was no promise the others would be spared. Freedom for her might mean death for them.
...
Maester Luwin's room was freezing, but he didn't stop to rub his cold hands. He dipped his pen, wrote quickly, rolled up the paper, and grabbed the next blank sheet.
"Karstark," Luwin said. He pressed his seal into hot grey wax. "Umber. Glover. Manderly."
Alaric stood by the window, watching the courtyard below. Smiths hammered hot steel. Men scraped swords against grinding stones. Workers nailed metal shoes onto the warhorses.
"What about the Boltons?" Alaric asked. He kept his back to the room, still looking out the glass.