Sansa walked through the dense godswood, her arm entwined with her betrothed's, feeling as though the sound of every leaf crunching beneath her slippers was somehow sweeter than any music played at court, as if the very forest laughed with delight at her presence.
Everything about the Red Keep had surpassed her most extravagant childhood dreams.
The dazzling gowns and doublets of courtiers, the endless procession of delicacies that graced the high table each night, the lords and ladies with their elegant manners, and the castle itself—a beautiful, gorgeous dream made stone. It was everything the songs promised, and more.
People told her with their eyes, with whispered words, and with countless meticulous courtesies what her future held: You will become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the mistress of the Red Keep itself.
With each passing day, Sansa found herself longing for her wedding with ever-growing anticipation.
"This forest is so peaceful," she said softly, "as quiet as a mirror-still lake, with fish swimming silently beneath the surface while people on the shore gaze in wonder." She looked up at Joffrey through her lashes. "If we could hold our wedding in a place such as this, wouldn't it be beautiful beyond compare?"
Joffrey's smile was slight but reassuring. "Why should we not? For my lovely queen, what harm would there be in holding ten weddings, or even a hundred?"
"It would be perfect to have the Children of the Forest as our officiants," Sansa continued, warming to the fantasy. "A truly unique ceremony, like none ever seen before."
She pouted then, prettily. "But we still must wait so very long. Three years, four years, five years—what terrifying numbers those are."
Joffrey, for his part, desired nothing more than to wed her sooner, to bind House Stark irrevocably to his chariot of state. Yet every expression that had crossed Lord Eddard's stern Northern face of late made it abundantly clear that he would not consent to such an arrangement, not while his daughter remained so young.
Thus far, every minister and noble in the Red Keep had accepted implantation of the Grace core, even Duke Tywin Lannister, whose mere glance could strike terror into the bravest of men.
All save the Regent and Hand of the King, Eddard Stark.
Are direwolves truly such stubborn creatures? Joffrey wondered silently. He could only place his hopes in the passage of time.
With luck, the growing transformation of King's Landing in all aspects would eventually persuade Lord Eddard to recognize the changing tides.
Sansa noted her betrothed's distraction with mounting displeasure. The King's thoughts had clearly wandered far from her, and this would not do. Not at all.
Who occupies his mind? she wondered, and almost instantly, a small figure materialized in her imagination—Daenerys, with her silver hair and violet eyes like something from the age of heroes.
He must be thinking of that woman!
Sansa shot him a glare that would have withered summer roses.
Ever since she had first glimpsed the former Targaryen princess within the Red Keep, Sansa had experienced an inexplicable sense of foreboding, a premonition that the two of them would eventually become rivals, perhaps even enemies.
In the days that followed, scattered fragments of overheard conversations had only deepened Sansa's suspicion.
Daenerys possessed not only the extraordinary beauty that came with pure Valyrian blood, but a political value that might prove greater still.
If the king were to marry her instead, he could reconcile with nobles and smallfolk alike who secretly yearned for the return of Targaryen rule. The Seven Kingdoms would know a stability that marriage to a Stark could never provide.
Sansa had no way of knowing whether these whispers contained truth or falsehood.
Is Daenerys truly so important?
She dared not ask her father or any other adults directly, leaving her no choice but to gather information through more circumspect means.
In matters of dress, needlework, and courtly etiquette, Sansa knew herself to be far superior to this former princess.
There was no reason she should lose the king's favor.
Sansa stole another glance at her betrothed's handsome face.
In a moment of reverie, that kiss shared at Winterfell seemed to have happened only moments ago, making it impossible to doubt the depth of his love for her.
That's right, she reminded herself. I am to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Sansa's anger melted away, replaced by a radiant smile. "Where is the heart tree? I can scarcely wait to greet the officiant of our wedding."
Joffrey led her deeper into the forest, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns across their path.
In the center of the godswood, beneath a massive oak tree whose branches were draped with smokeberry vines like a maiden's dress adorned with rubies, three Children of the Forest rested in peaceful contemplation. Nearby, Bran and Arya played with obvious delight, their laughter carrying through the trees.
Sansa immediately assumed the air of a dignified elder sister. "Bran, Arya, you mustn't play so wildly! Have you no concern for disturbing our guests?"
Bran's smile diminished by half in an instant.
Arya, who had never found common ground with her sister, promptly gathered a handful of acorns and hurled them at Sansa. The elder Stark girl dodged in panic, much to Bran's renewed amusement.
The Child of the Forest known as "Leaf" approached Joffrey and the Stark sisters, her movements as fluid as water over stone. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa, please be at ease. We delight in the presence of these children. Their laughter is the most precious gift that life bestows."
Arya darted over, quick as a cat. "That's right, that's right! We've been the best of friends for ages. It's only because you didn't bother to come here, Sansa, that you know nothing of it."
Bran offered Joffrey a knight's salute executed with remarkable precision for one so young. "Good day to you, Your Grace."
Joffrey placed a hand upon Bran's shoulder with genuine warmth. The boy had reclaimed some of his youthful spirit since arriving at the Red Keep, no longer spending his days inhabiting the bodies of animals to spy on the secrets of others. He had rediscovered his love for climbing and adventure, and had even helped to map the labyrinthine secret passages that honeycomb the ancient fortress.
"Bran," Joffrey began, "I had planned to speak with you in a few days' time, but since you are here now, I may as well share my thoughts and hear what you think of them."
Bran, Sansa, and Arya all fixed him with curious stares.
Joffrey paced slowly before seating himself beneath the great oak. "I presume you all know that my dear uncle Renly has declared war against us. Within a few months, the conflict will engulf the realm completely."
Sansa's face filled with worry, while Arya and Bran displayed a complex mixture of fear and excitement at the prospect.
"We shall be victorious, without question!" Arya declared proudly. "Father won't merely stand aside. The warriors of the North fear no man—each is worth ten Southron knights."
Joffrey nodded in apparent agreement. "Who could say otherwise?"
In truth, Lord Eddard's support had proven less substantial than Joffrey had envisioned mere months ago.
Thus far, Robb remained at Winterfell, making no move to march south. Only half of the North's principal bannermen had answered the call to arms, and the assembled forces numbered fewer than ten thousand spears.
The Riverlands, with their notoriously tenuous cohesion, and the Vale, paralyzed by isolationist tendencies, were proving even less reliable.
By Joffrey's calculation, when Renly's army completed its muster and marched on King's Landing, it would be a blessing from the Seven if the North, Riverlands, and Vale combined could field twenty thousand fighting men.
Sansa spoke gentle words of reassurance, her voice as sweet as summer wine. "You are the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Renly commands only Storm's End and its vassals."
Joffrey harbored confidence in his ultimate victory, yet he knew the Seven Kingdoms did not share his certainty.
The Iron Islands were poised to strike, though which coastline they meant to raid remained unknown. Meanwhile, twenty thousand troops from the Reach had already taken position at Old Oak, prepared to advance northward along the Ocean Road—a maneuver that could bring them to the heart of the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock itself, within a week.
This looming threat had forced Duke Tywin to keep his main force stationed at Lannisport, sending only ten thousand cavalry to reinforce King's Landing.
While Highgarden continued to train fresh levies behind the bulwark of Old Oak, the sixty-thousand-strong Reach host east of Highgarden now approached King's Landing via the Rose Road. By all estimates, the combined armies of the Stormlands and Reach would complete their union within two months.
The arithmetic was simple enough: King's Landing itself had trained twenty thousand new troops, bolstered by ten thousand from the Westerlands and twenty thousand from the North, for a total of fifty thousand defenders.
Against them, Renly would lead no fewer than eighty thousand battle-hardened warriors to claim the throne.
Already, lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms prepared to abandon their oaths of fealty to the crown.
Joffrey observed these developments with cold calculation.
The more these traitors reveal themselves, he thought, the easier they make our task when the time comes to cleanse the realm.
"Bran," Joffrey beckoned the boy to sit beside him, "as king, both responsibility and honor require that I stand firm. I shall ride to the battlefield personally, to fight alongside my soldiers."
Bran's eyes shone with undisguised admiration.
Joffrey sighed theatrically. "Time waits for no man. We must all grow into our destined roles without delay."
He continued, his voice measured and reasonable. "The business of war is demanding. I intend to add several clever attendants to my personal retinue—to carry messages, dispatch orders, and, when necessary, to wield steel in my name. Should they prove worthy, I shall knight them with my own hand when victory is secured."
"What say you to that?"
Bran's imagination ignited instantly. A nine-year-old knight? What glory that would bring, a tale to rival any sung of legendary heroes!
"Your Grace," he replied, barely containing his excitement, "I beg you, take me with you!"
Confronted with Bran's shining eyes, how could Joffrey possibly refuse such earnest enthusiasm?
"Provided your lord father grants his permission," he conceded.
Bran's face split into a wide grin.
He knew from long experience that if he persisted with sufficient determination, his father would eventually yield to his wishes.
Joffrey turned his attention to Leaf, his expression brightening. "I bring good tidings."
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