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Her father dies, Joffrey delights in calling her a traitor’s daughter and in making her look at her father’s severed head, but somehow she still ends up becoming the queen, wedding Joffrey in an elaborate ceremony that would have delighted her mere months ago.
It is a decision she neither understands nor particularly likes, but one she has no choice but to agree with, for she is alone without any of her family, alone and under the control of the Lannisters entirely.
She is Joffrey’s queen, but she is also a traitor’s daughter, a traitor’s sister. It is an utterly perplexing situation, because for Joffrey, there is no benefit in wedding her. Her becoming queen does not end Robb’s campaign against the Lannisters, nor does it quell the treasonous actions of other houses in making alliances with him, her brother proving his success in battle time after time. She does not provide any alliance for Joffrey, no dowry, nothing but herself, and even that he seems disgusted by.
He does take delight in beating her though, for even though she is the queen, Joffrey is the king, and he has every right to order his Kingsguard to rip her clothes in half and beat her for her brother’s insolence.
It is a situation, a marriage, that shall never foster any love, only resentment, and she curses her younger self for being so foolish as to think Joffrey a perfect prince.
He is not even the rightful heir. She’s spent enough time in the company of assorted Lannisters to realise that Joffrey looked exactly like his uncle, a familiarity in appearance that was more than having his uncle’s twin as his mother. Her father died simply because he found out the truth, found out that Cersei had been cheating on the king with her own brother, and had wished to share it with the rest of the court, letting Stannis Baratheon or one of King Robert’s seemingly numerous natural children ascend to the throne as per their due.
Joffrey is not even meant to be the king, for he is not Robert’s son, but yet on the throne he sits, and her father is dead over a mere matter of the truth. She only wishes it had been Joffrey in his place, because then she would not be queen, her father would still be alive, and they’d both be free to leave the chaos of King’s Landing.
But those are the wishes of a foolish girl, and she is Joffrey’s silent queen, speaking only to apologise for the actions of others, actions that she has no control over, actions that earn her a beating in front of the whole court, her body exposed for all to see and her husband, her king, delighting in her screams.
More mad than Aerys, she has heard people say, and she has to agree with the sentiment. Fortunately, Joffrey has only bedded her once, on the night of their wedding, and it had been a short albeit painful affair, one that had seen him leave her rooms as quickly as he could, leaving her free to weep into her pillow for the injustice of it all. She is the queen, she should be the most powerful woman in the entirety of Westeros, but yet she has no power at all.
And no friends.
Jeyne has disappeared, as has the rest of her father’s household, and she suspects that most of her maids are Lannister spies, so she tends not to speak to them. What could she say to them anyway? They’d neither care about nor sympathise with her worries and fears, and even Shae, the maid whom does not seem like a maid at all, speaks only a few curt words to her every morning as she dresses her for breakfast with the Lannisters.
Only Tommen and Myrcella bring her any joy, and Myrcella is to leave for Dorne soon, ensuring that her source of happiness is utterly dependent on the young boy who is content to play with his kittens and let Sansa read him stories, Sansa trying to fill the ache in her heart with Tommen’s sweet company.
Myrcella is frightened about the idea of leaving, but Sansa knows that no matter how far away Dorne may be, how different from King’s Landing it is, it could never be worse than her own situation. She’s often quite envious of the fact that Myrcella shall soon be able to leave King’s Landing whilst she is confined to only a few rooms, her husband not wanting her to have any chance of escape.
But where would she go, even if she did manage to escape? She wants to scream this at him whenever he strips her off any small freedom, a Kingsguard member trailing her at all times. At the beginning, she’d tried to make polite conversation with her Kingsguard, tried to make the time pass quicker and to make herself feel more normal, but by now they’ve all beaten her at least once, the Kingslayer included, and Sansa feels nothing for disgust when she looks at them, disgust mixed with a fury she cannot channel into anything tangible.
She shall never escape, and sooner or later she thinks Joffrey shall have her beaten to death, especially if Robb keeps succeeding against his grandfather’s forces, which she prays for every morning.
---
Sansa is summoned to the great hall a few days later, Shae dressing her in her finest gown of gold cloth, brushing her hair until it shines. She has come to learn Joffrey’s likes and dislikes immensely well, and where she can Sansa tries to lessen his ire at her, hoping that a pretty outfit and shiny, soft hair shall distract him enough that she does not have to suffer through a beating. The welts from her last one have not yet healed over, and she’s long over being unable to control her tears, over showing Joffrey just how much agony he is able to cause her.
But, surprisingly, there is to be no beating today, for Joffrey meets her at the entrance to the great hall and takes her hand in his, raising it to his mouth for a gentle kiss. So, it is to be her nice husband today, her gentle king. She wonders just whom they are to impress.
“Let’s walk in together my queen,” Joffrey suggests, offering her his arm. She takes it hurriedly, inhaling sharply in order to remind herself that this is just a show, just pretend, and soon enough her husband shall be cruel to her once again. She’s too often let herself be fooled by his act, let herself think that he has finally come to his senses and has realised that she is his queen, and that means she should be respected, only to have to reality hit her once more with the hit of a hand.
The hall is crowded, members of seemingly every house still loyal to the Lannisters standing before them. She sits in an ornate chair beside Joffrey’s throne, breathing in deep and squaring her shoulders as she eyes the crowd. There are the Marbands, the Leffords, the Crakehalls, almost all of the houses still loyal to the Lannisters, all of those more than aware of the way she is suffering at the hands of Joffrey, but all of them choosing to remain silent upon the matter.
Cowards, she thinks.
Not for the first time, she wishes, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her posture straight, the image of a perfect queen, that something about her life was different. She wishes that her father were still alive, she wishes that Robb defeats all of their enemies and comes to rescue her before it is too late, she wishes that Joffrey were the golden prince she’d thought him to be. There is no use in wishing, she knows this, but sitting before the court, sitting before people who surely know that the marks on her back from her beating last week have still not healed, it makes her furious that she cannot do anything, and so she wishes instead in a desperate attempt to remain calm.
After all, Joffrey is the only one allowed to be angry.
But today, today he is so very pleased, and she doesn’t have to wait very long to find how just why her husband’s wormy lips have a smile upon them instead of a sneer.
The lady is beautiful, her hair dark and curly, her eyes big and brown. Her skin is pale and creamy, her smile soft and enchanting. Margaery Tyrell. Sansa has heard of her, the Rose of Highgarden, but she has never laid eyes upon her until now. She seems charming enough, but then again, so did everyone in King’s Landing the day she arrived here.
Sansa tilts her head and looks sideways at her husband, and by the way her husband is looking at Margaery, seated high on his sharp throne, Joffrey wants her. And what Joffrey wants, he gets. That is the way the world works, it seems. She only hopes that this Margaery knows exactly what she’s getting herself into.
After all, Sansa cannot save her.
She can barely save herself.
---
With the arrival of Margaery Tyrell, it seems as if a switch has been flicked in her husband, Joffrey nothing but charm itself, even when the dark-haired girl isn’t around. Gone are the snide remarks sneered to Sansa at dinner, for Margaery often dines with them now. Gone are the cruel taunts about her family, the cruel jests about slicing her brother’s head from his body and presenting it to her as a gift, for Margaery is too sensitive a girl to hear such talk. Sansa does not begrudge Margaery Joffrey’s attention, not at all, for the less time she spends with her husband, the better, but she does feel a slight twinge of envy when she sees just how kindly Margaery is treated by Joffrey, even after a month has passed since her arrival and novelty of her surely must have worn off.
It has been so long since Sansa was treated with any small measure of true kindness. Joffrey’s kindness is false, to be sure, all an act to persuade Margaery into his bed, but it still hurts when she sees her husband bow his head and kiss Margaery’s hand, watches him present her with gifts worthy of a queen, when Sansa is his wedded wife, Sansa is his queen.
But not the mother of his children.
Perhaps she could be, if he ever decided to visit her chambers. Not that she particularly wants him to, for the one and only night she has ever spent with him had been more than enough, but sometimes she cannot help but think about the possibility of children. Perhaps if she had a child, Joffrey would respect her more. Perhaps he wouldn’t beat the mother of his child, and even if he did, at least she would have something to live for other than the joy of seeing her family again, the desire to see Robb storm the capital and strike her husband down. A child could be good, she thinks, but she knows that with Margaery occupying all of Joffrey’s attention, with Margaery seemingly the only thing he cares about, a child is a far off fruition that more than likely shall never come to fruition.
When Margaery come to visit her chambers one sunny afternoon, it is an utter surprise. They have exchanged words before, and whenever Margaery smiles at her Sansa cannot help but smile back, but visiting her chambers is another thing altogether. Still, she tells Shae to let Margaery in, and sends another one of her maids to the kitchens for some afternoon delicacies and tea. She thinks the amount of lemons delivered to the capital have all but tripled since she became queen, because even if no one else respects her, the cooks still wish their queen to have delicious food.
Margaery seats herself delicately in a chair opposite Sansa, her brown hair naturally curling down her back in a way Sansa’s hair never shall. They exchange idle conversation for a few moments, both sipping tea and snacking from the sweets Sansa’s maid retrieves from the kitchens, but Sansa can sense that there is something Margaery has come to talk to her about.
Has she come to seek her permission to bed Joffrey? Sansa almost laughs at the thought, but takes another sip of tea instead. It is common knowledge that Joffrey holds no feelings whatsoever towards his queen, albeit delighting in berating and beating her. There is no reason Margaery needs her permission to do whatever she pleases with Joffrey, and no reason for Sansa not to give it.
But Margaery Tyrell does not seek Sansa’s permission, in fact, Margaery does something rather the opposite. After she has requested that Sansa ask her maids to leave, the golden-haired one that Sansa knows is somehow a Lannister relative glowering at the order, Margaery leans forward and takes one of Sansa’s hands in her own.
“I am not in love with Joffrey,” she tells Sansa, matter-of-factly. “I daresay you’d agree with me when I say that I doubt anyone could ever truly love him.”
“Except Cersei,” Sansa murmurs, too shocked by Margaery’s confession to filter her thoughts like she should.
Margaery nods at the thought. “She is his mother, and I suspect she’d forgive him anything. She has thus far anyway, especially with regards to you,” she remarks. “There’s always been rumours that Robert Baratheon hurt Cersei, and yet she’s done nothing to stop Joffrey from treating you as badly as she was. In fact, she’s often encouraged it, from what Joffrey tells me. Perhaps it’s jealously, perhaps it is simple dislike, but the fact is, Sansa, you do not deserve it.”
“I know,” Sansa replies, staring Margaery straight in the eyes. She has resided in King’s Landing for four years now, and she’d like to think herself somewhat as an apt reader of people, but the truth is she still has a long way to go before she can tell a person’s true motives. And trying to decipher what Margaery’s are is so very difficult, and she is so very tired of the court intrigue and politics.
So, Sansa simply asks her.
“If you are not in love with the king, why are you pretending to be?” she questions Margaery, withdrawing her hand from hers and slicing a lemon cake in half, sticky syrup on her fingers.
Margaery smiles once more, a coy thing, and tells Sansa, “Because it is all part of the plan.”
Upon this, she seemingly refuses to elaborate, Margaery copying Sansa and slicing a lemon tart in half. Before she bites into it though, she says, “My family is to come to King’s Landing soon, at the request of the king.” She bites into her tart, her mouth perfectly pink, and murmurs, “I’d like nothing better than for you to meet them, because I’d like us to be friends Sansa. I think that we best of all know just who the king is, and what better way to survive this court, survive Joffrey, than by supporting one another?”
When Shae asks her how her tea with Margaery went later than night, her handmaiden undoing the braids in her hair and brushing them with the comb she’s had for years now, ever since she was a girl at Winterfell, Sansa honestly cannot think of an apt answer.
Margaery is perhaps one of the most perplexing people she has met, but she seems kind enough, and by the old gods and the new, Sansa would like some kindness in her life, no matter how small.
---
True to her word, weeks later Margaery requests an audience with her on her family’s behalf. She almost tells her that such formality is unnecessary, for Margaery has been visiting her quite often, the girl managing to make Sansa laugh for the first times in months with her impersonation of Pycelle, but if Margaery wishes to honour her in this way, if Margaery is giving her the first opportunity she has had in months to behave like the queen she is, than Sansa shall take it, and be thankful for it besides.
The introductions take place in her solar, Sansa’s hair braided high up on her crown, her dress a soft lilac. She wears no crown, wears no jewellery aside from the Lannister lion she must always wear around her neck, but she thinks she looks positively regal.
Margaery wears her favourite gown of green and gold, her eyes sparkling as she introduces the members of her family. Only her second eldest brother, she tells Sansa, Garlan and his wife Leonette, remain at Highgarden to take care of matters, but they sends their best wishes for the queen nonetheless. Sansa smiles at the thought.
“My brother, Loras,” Margaery says, gesturing at a boy the mirror image of herself, brown curls and big, brown eyes. He looks at Sansa, and she thinks, this must be the Loras that everyone whispered about with regards to Renly Baratheon, may the gods rest his soul.
Before she can dwell on the matter, or on how even Renly would have made a better king than Joffrey, Margaery introduces her mother, father and grandmother in quick succession, a tall, blonde-haired lady whose smile matches Margaery’s own, a stocky, dark haired man and an elderly lady, one whose eyes are still alight with something Sansa cannot quite name.
And then, Margaery waves forward the figure that has captured Sansa’s attention ever since he followed his sister into her solar. His curls are slightly lighter than his sister’s, his eyes slightly smaller, but he is handsome beyond belief, a slight beard peppering his cheeks and chin.
“My eldest brother,” Margaery informs her, looking so proud of her family that Sansa wants to weep for her own, “Willas.”
The man, Willas, smiles softly at her, and bends over to kiss her hand softly. “My queen,” he murmurs and whilst the hairs of his beard scratch her skin, Sansa finds that doesn’t mind the sensation. Joffrey insists in keeping his skin as cleanly-shaven as Tommen’s, as do most of the men in the court, she supposes due to the hotter weather, but she misses the sight of beards so commonly found in the North, and the sight of Willas’ makes her heart once more pang for her family. Robb would surely have a beard to rival their father’s by now, and it is just one of the many things she has missed out on seeing, trapped here in King’s Landing.
But she pushes the thought aside and smiles at the man in front of her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she tells him, directing her smile at the rest of his family, “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. I do so hope you’ll have a good stay here in the capital, for I know Margaery has missed you dreadfully. Now, I’d be so pleased if you’d all take some afternoon tea with me out in the in gardens before the king honours us with his presence at dinner.”
Margaery nods at the sentiment, linking her hand with her mother’s.
As Sansa stands up and smooths down the skirt of her dress, Willas offers her his arm and asks, “May I have the honour of escorting you to the gardens, my queen?” Sansa finds herself unable to speak, so she merely nods and takes his arm gingerly, leading the party outside into the gardens, which may just be the very best thing about King’s Landing.
Behind her, Margaery beams.
All in all, it is a delightful afternoon, one that is spoiled only when Joffrey arrives and beckons her to him, pinching the tender skin of her arm as he grins at the Tyrells and ushers them inside for dinner.
---
The Tyrells soon become a seemingly permanent fixture of the court and of life in King’s Landing. Joffrey is more taken with Margaery than ever, and it shows. Her father, Mace, is appointed to her husband’s small council, and Loras to the Kingsguard.
Willas is the only Tyrell, it seems, that is not honoured by the king, and Sansa supposes that it because of his bad leg. Joffrey has never had any sympathy for injuries of any kind, even ones inflicted by his own hand, or by his own orders. The one and only time she tried to plead with him, kneeling on the cold floor of the great hall, tried to tell him that her wounds from her previous beating had still not healed and that she would be so very grateful if he wouldn’t have her beaten, just this once, Joffrey had ordered the Kingsguard present to beat her twice as hard for her insolence. She’d never made that mistake again.
Willas does not seem to mind that the King does not honour him like the rest of his family, and Sansa herself, for once, is thankful for Joffrey’s ignorance, for it allows Willas to spend the majority of her time with her. He is an incredibly intelligent man, and the only one at this godforsaken court that treats her with any respect.
She finds herself liking him more and more, especially when he whispers to her knowledge her of her brother’s latest successes, Robb winning every campaign and seemingly on his way to winning this war. The news makes her cry, tears spilling from her eyes as she desperately tries to stop them, but Willas merely clucks his tongue in sympathy and gathers her into his arms, his voice soothing her as she weeps into his chest.
The time she spends with Willas is ever edging on the side of danger, she knows this, but yet, somehow, Sansa just cannot make herself stop, cannot deny herself the pleasure of his company. He is one of her very few sources of joy in King’s Landing, and when he looks at her, she can almost pretend that Joffrey does not exist, that this war is not waging, that she is happy and loved and the scars on her body don’t exist.
And besides, Joffrey has Margaery, and he is not ashamed of flaunting her in front of the court, so why shouldn’t she seek out whatever happiness she can? There is to be no happiness in her marriage, no happiness in her position, but there is happiness when she is around Willas, and Sansa revels in the feeling after being denied it for so long.
She only dreads the day it disappears, for surely Willas shall soon return to Highgarden. His mother already has, with a tearful goodbye to her daughter that made Sansa weep as she watched, and as the heir to the Reach, Willas is surely the one whom is expected to be there in his father’s absence, not his younger brother. His stay in the capital has been far too long already, and she shall never ask him to extend it, only feel thankful that he has been here at all.
Willas takes supper with her that night, with the windows in her room wide open so a light breeze can trickle in. It is yet another hot and stuffy night, and Sansa sheds her heavy gowns in favour of something light, a green dress that Margaery gifted to her, one more revealing than most of her other gowns. Even Willas has shed his ornate vests, his beard neatly trimmed, and when she opens the door to let him in she catches the way he eyes the skin exposed by her gown and flushes at the thought.
Shae sets down a platter of bread and meats on the table separating them, and Sansa dismisses her with a soft smile, pouring herself and Willas both a glass of wine.
“You must miss Highgarden,” Sansa says before she can stop herself. Willas is surprised by her question, she can see the surprise on his face, but he answers herself nonetheless. She supposes he has to, for she is the queen. It is a saddening thought, for around Willas she has found herself acting not like the queen, not like the girl King’s Landing has shaped her into, but rather more like the girl she used to be, more like Sansa.
“I suppose I do,” Willas tells her, sipping at his wine. He shrugs, scratching his beard idly. “But there is much here to be enamoured with, and I know Highgarden is safe in Garlan’s hands. I daresay my absence has scarcely been noticed.”
“I’d have to disagree with you on that,” Sansa murmurs, her heart beating heavily in her chest. “I don’t see how you couldn’t be missed, not when I know I shall miss you dreadfully when you must leave King’s Landing.”
The air is thick between them, and Sansa can hardly breathe. Willas swallows, and tells her, “I don’t have to leave. Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispers, a confession to both Willas and to herself that she thought she’d never make, and in a mere second Willas is out of his chair and on his feet, pulling her out of her chair and closer to him. She stretches upwards to meet him, he bends down, and when he kisses her, she thinks, this is what songs are written about.
Willas’ mouth is hot on her own, the hairs of his beard delightfully scratching her skin, his hands roaming over her shoulders, her back, her waist. They stumble out of her solar and into her bedchamber, mouths still attached, Willas’ cane forgotten, and fall onto her bed as one. Sansa is more than happy to let him kiss her passionately for a few moments, revelling in the feeling, until they are both panting for breath and she summons the strength to pushes him away from her with a shaky hand.
“You mustn’t,” she tells him, even as his mouth travels to her neck, “You mustn’t leave any marks.” His lips attach to the tender skin on her neck, and she moans, arching up into his touch, “Joffrey mustn’t know.”
Her meaning seems to reach Willas, for he plants a soft peck to her neck before withdrawing, smiling gently down at her as she lies on her bed, hair seemingly everywhere. “He never shall,” he tells her, and that’s good enough for her. She pulls him back down, her hands winding into the hair at the base of his neck, desperate to be closer, to be his entirely.
She screams his name when she finishes, screams so loudly that she laughs despite herself, despite the fact that Joffrey himself may have just heard her, because she is so very happy. Willas grins into her breasts, and when he slips out of her, he immediately entwines his arms around her, his head buried in her hair.
“Sleep now,” he tells her. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
He isn’t, but the warmth of the bed beside her tells her he has just left, the sun high enough in the sky that she really should have been awake by now.
Willas may not be beside her like he promised, but a single rose is, and Sansa holds it to her nose, inhaling deeply, and grins happily to herself, her skin bare in the morning sunlight.
---
Willas comes to her bed almost every night, giving her pleasure that she has only dreamed out, and for weeks she thinks that this may just be the happiest she has ever been. No one suspects a thing, for Willas is gone before anyone is awake, and besides, they have Margaery on their side. Any questions, any remarks, that may reach Joffrey are instantly waved away by Margaery, Margaery able to manipulate the king in a way Sansa never could.
Sansa enjoys weeks and weeks of unparalleled bliss, Joffrey unaware of her treachery, Willas in her bed and in her thoughts for the entirety of the day. She is happy like she has never been, even in the capital which has brought her so much pain, but one morning she is not. The arrival of morning sees her stumbling from her bed, hand over her mouth, and expelling the contents of her stomach into a hastily grabbed bowl, beads of sweat peppering her forehead.
Oh no, she thinks, and her stomach seems to agree with her, for Sansa is queasy once more.
Margaery confirms her suspicions only moments later, a robe hastily thrown over her body and Sansa’s hair loose and unbrushed down her back as she hurries from her rooms. For once, she is grateful that Joffrey has given Margaery the second best chambers in the entire keep, for it means her rooms are mere doors away from Sansa’s. When she knocks on her door, Margaery opens it quickly, still clad in her nightgown. Her eyes widen at the sight of Sansa, but she ushers her inside quickly, shutting the door behind her.
She pours Sansa a glass of chilled water, and Sansa accepts it gratefully, for her skin feels so very hot that she longs to dive into the sea itself, queenly standards be damned. After taking a sip, she tells Margaery everything that has happens mere moments ago, and when she finishes, Margaery leans forward to clasp her hand tightly, offering Sansa a gentle smile.
“I’d say it’s more than likely you’re pregnant Sansa,” she tells her, and Sansa sobs without thinking, for how could she let this happen? How could she not realise that this was a possibility? She’d told Willas that Joffrey could never find out, but how can she ever explain away a baby?
And she’ll never rid herself of it, she cannot even bear to think about doing something like that. This is her child, her blood, and she shall not see it expelled from her before the proper time.
She weeps into Margaery’s hair, her face flushed and her eyes swollen, her mouth dry. “What am I going to do?” she asks through sobs, for surely Joffrey shall have her killed once he finds out, once her stomach swells and she is unable to her hide her treason. She shall die just like her father before her, and there is nothing that can be done about it. Joffrey shall delight in having her executed, she knows he will. She shall die, and she shall never see her family again. “There’s no chance of Joffrey thinking it’s his, for he hasn’t come to my bed in years, not since our wedding day. And he’s not likely to,” Sansa says, laughing shakily, “not now when he has you.”
Margaery shushes her, sweeping her hands down her back soothingly. “Don’t worry,” she tells Sansa, looking her straight in the eye, “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it,” she repeats
That night, Joffrey knocks on her door, reeking of drink and apparently extremely drunk, as his uncle so often is. Moment later, he is in her bed, his mouth on her skin and his hands under her nightclothes. She struggles to not feel repulsed by his touch, but even if she does, he seemingly does not notice.
He calls her Margaery when he finishes, and is asleep, snoring loudly, before she can correct him.
But he is still in her bed when she awakes and when he awakens himself, it is to the sight of her auburn hair, his arm strategically placed around her waist, just above where her child grows. He has a pounding headache, and he dreadfully reeks of stale wine, but he is as naked as she is, and in a month or so when she tells him the news, there shall be no doubt in his mind that he is her child’s father, even though he is not.
Margaery, for some reason, has saved her from certain doom, and although she is extremely perplexed as to why, Sansa is grateful as she has never been. Margaery never tells her how she convinced Joffrey to visit Sansa’s bed that night, but somehow she did, and for that Sansa is forever in her debt.
Willas weeps when she tells him the news, falling to his knees despite his bad leg, his mouth pressed to her belly. She sweeps her fingers through his curls, and weeps herself, for she might be saved, but she is not free, not yet.
Her daughter is born on a pleasantly cool afternoon, and thankfully, happily, she has Sansa’s blue eyes and a few tiny wisps of light hair. Her hair is light enough that Joffrey takes one look at her as Sansa holds her in her arms and announces her to be his Lannister lioness, even though Sansa thinks that her daughter’s hair shall perhaps lighten to a Tyrell brown as she grows. Arya, after all, had been born with the same reddish tinge their mother had gifted them, but her hair had grown as dark as their father’s by the time of her first nameday, her grey eyes and dark hair marking her as a Stark through and through.
As Joffrey crows about the newest Lannister, Sansa thinks, my king, you are supposed to be a Baratheon, but she does not have the courage to voice her thoughts. She does not have the courage to do much it seems, not with this precious gift in her arms, blinking up at her. Joffrey may be convinced well enough that this is his child, but Sansa shall still need to protect her, and she cannot do that if Joffrey has her killed, and he had her father killed without remorse for the very same thing Sansa wishes to exclaim right this second.
“You can name her though,” Joffrey tells her, already halfway out the door, shouting for wine so he can celebrate, barely bothering to spare a thought for Sansa’s needs. “She’s only a girl after all.”
Not just a girl, Sansa thinks as she watches him leave. She’s my daughter, mine, not yours, and I shall see you dead, by Robb’s hand or by my own, before she is old enough to remember you.
Willas sneaks into her rooms that night, slipping into her bed and holding her as she feeds their daughter. She beams at the sight of him, the moonlight streaming in through her open curtains.
“Elinor,” she whispers to him later, Willas’ arms tight around her and his mouth in her hair. “I want to name her Elinor,” she tells him, and Willas grins, pressing a kiss to her temple, his hand brushing gently over their daughter’s head.
There is a single rose resting beside her on her bed when she wakes, and if Shae thinks anything about it, her maid says nothing, merely hands Sansa her daughter, her precious Elinor.
Sansa tells Joffrey her decision about their daughter’s name at breakfast that morning, and her husband merely shrugs and agrees, his mouth full of food and his crown resting lopsided on his head. A fool, Sansa thinks.
She has chosen the name not just for Willas, but for her own safety. It is a Tyrell name, and with Joffrey so enamoured with Margaery, Sansa thought it unlikely for him to reject such a name. Catelyn, Lyarra, Minisa, those had been her preferred choices, but they would have all been rejected, and besides, there shall be ample opportunity for her to name her children as she desires once she is free.
The biggest fool in Westeros, Sansa thinks, grinning into her napkin as her husband stuffs his face and Cersei glowers, a wineglass in hand despite the early hour.
---
By the time Elinor’s hair has darkened to match Willas’ own shade of brown, as Sansa has feared from the moment she came into the world, Joffrey is dead, poisoned at his nameday feast. Her good-mother cradles her son’s head in her lap as he struggles to breath, the scene making tears well in Sansa’s eyes despite herself, despite everything.
Joffrey may have been her very worst nightmare, but he is choking right in front of her, alive one moment and gone the next, and her good-mother is wailing, screaming whenever anyone tries to detangle her from Joffrey’s figure. Sansa supposes the unexpected tears make for a good cover anyway, for she shall play the grieving widow for as long as necessary, shall do whatever it takes to ensure no suspicion is cast upon her.
Acting as if she is overwhelmed with grief when all she wants to do is stand on top of the Red Keep and scream to anyone who shall listen about how much of a maniac Joffrey was, how glad she is that he is dead, dead and gone and never able to touch her again shall only be necessary for a few days, she hopes. Sansa spends most of those days sequestered away in her rooms with her daughter, humming soft lullabies to her as the bells chime all across King’s Landing for Joffrey’s death. The court is listless without the king or queen, for Cersei too has locked herself in her rooms, her plates of food remaining untouched.
Her grief is real though, and Sansa does pity her for it, but there was no other way, no other choice.
On the fourth day of her self-imposed solitude, Sansa startles at the sharp knock on her door, her heart thundering in her chest. She perches Elinor on her hip to settle her, her daughter seemingly as anxious as her mother, and makes her way slowly to the door, her mouth dry.
When she opens it though, a smile, not an accusation, greets her and Sansa expels a breath, shakily laughing and collapsing into his embrace. Their daughter squished in between them, she stretches up to kiss Willas, finally free to do as she pleases, whenever she feels like it, whenever she so desires.
Willas spirits her and their child away to Highgarden where he promises, where he hopes, that she shall be as happy as she has always dreamed of being.
Sansa shall no longer be the queen, for Margaery is to marry Tommen, but she is more than happy to relinquish her title in exchange for Willas and their daughter.