Chapter Text
“Run.”
Her legs ache as she runs, the cold of the winter air striking her skin as she sprints past the open galleys. She can hear the screams outside, but she knows she cannot bear to look from any of the windows. She cannot think of what is happening beyond the Red Keep, for to think of the horrors of the outside was to stop and she cannot stop.
The sword is heavy in her hands, but she knows she cannot let it slip from her fingers. Ice, keep me strong, she pleads, as the blood from the blade drips on the floor. She cannot think of the name her husband named it. She cannot think of that. All she can think of is Ice, and her father. Keep me strong, Father.
Maegor's Holdfast seems so vast now and yet Sansa Stark knows the truth. She has walked these halls a thousand times over and she knows how quickly she can reach her. Just get to her room, she tells herself. Get to her room. Get to her room. Get to her room.
When she sees the door to the Princess’s chambers, Sansa nearly cries. She wrenches open the familiar door, and looks for her.
“Joanna!” Sansa calls out, panicked. “Joanna!”
“Mama!”
Her daughter, and her Septa are huddled in the corner with the ladies’ maids instructed for her care. Sansa can see her babe, only two years of age, struggling to get out of Septa’s arms. The unruly dark hair seems so large now, and Sansa cannot help but be relieved at the sight of it. My girl, my babe.
“Gods, your grace!”
Sansa knows what they can see. They see their Queen, crown and all, coated in blood. They must assume it is hers, for it is safer that way. They cannot know what I have done. Sansa can see their watchful gazes, and their fear, but she cannot worry for any of them now. She strides over to them, before she plucks her daughter from the arms of the Septa.
“Your grace--”
“I am taking the Princess,” Sansa declares, her voice cold. Her eyes sweep over the women – instructed to keep a watchful eye over Sansa’s babe by Cersei Lannister – and she knows she cannot leave them there. I am the Queen, and these are my people. “You must leave. All of you – find a safe place within the Keep, or on the streets outside.”
“But your grace--”
“Where shall we go?”
Sansa tightens her hold on her daughter, who has buried her face in her mothers neck. “Stay in Maegors. That is the safest place. But you must surrender when the Keep is taken.”
“Your Grace?” Septa Crane asks, her eyes wide with worry. “Surely this cannot be happening. The King will protect us. The Gods will protect us.”
Sansa turns from them as she says, “Your King is dead. He can’t protect you now.”
Sansa takes to the halls again, but she knows she cannot go to her chambers. Joanna lifts her head as Sansa stops to take a breath, her heart hammering in her chest as she tries to comprehend what she has done.
“Mama?” Joanna asks, her wide, blue eyes staring at her in confusion.
“It is okay, my sweet,” Sansa murmurs, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head. “Mama just needs a moment to think.”
Where do I go? What have I done?
“What’s happening?” Joanna asks.
Sansa’s breath fractures, and she can feel the sob that sat in her throat emerge from her lips. Sansa smoothes her daughter’s curls, and presses a kiss to her temple. “Good people are coming into the city. We must be brave. Can you be brave for me, my darling?”
Joanna looks at her with wide eyes and an inquisitive smile, and nods. “Yes, Mama. I can be brave.”
“Thank you,” Sansa whispers, before she gathers her skirts in her hands and begins to run again.
Sansa knows where she must go, but her heart is screaming for her to run far from here. She can hear Tyrion's words in her mind, urging her to hide within the capital and let them take the keep. It is just as clear as it was that day in her solar and Sansa wonders if Tyrion is still alive. I could take Joanna, and run. I could return North.
But she knows she cannot.
The Great Hall is empty and Sansa feels intimidated by the sight of it. Do not fear it, she tells herself, you are the Queen, and this is your hall.
Joanna wiggles in her arms and motions to be put down. Sansa places her on the floor and she begins to run, on unsteady legs, to the throne, as she has done so many times prior.
Sansa can hear the battle beyond the walls, so close. She has little time to worry about the explosions or the screams on the ramparts. Instead, she lifts her skirts and drags the sword on the floor as she climbs the steps to the throne. Sitting down, Sansa places the sword at the foot of the throne and lifts her daughter onto her lap.
Sansa can feel the tears on her cheeks, but she cannot bear to push them from her face. Joanna watches her mother weep with curiosity and Sansa knows this is the first time she has seen her mother cry.
They are quiet for a while, with the sound of the battle that was beyond the walls meeting their ears. Sansa focuses on the even breaths of her daughter as she begins to fall asleep – the sight of her little body, wrapped in her white night clothes, allowing her a quiet moment of peace.
It is hours before they come.
She hears them before she sees them.
Sansa stands, grabbing what was Ice as she holds Joanna against her – her body limp as she sleeps.
Be brave, Sansa. Be brave.
Sansa holds her father’s sword in front of her, ready to surrender, when her mind is invaded by intrusive thoughts. Will they call you Elia, she thinks, when they remember you? Suddenly Sansa is grasped by the memory of Elia Martell, who had been murdered and raped and her children slaughtered.
Sansa goes to move, when the doors to the great hall are pushed open.
A small woman with white hair and two men lead a crowd of black and red. It is an air of victory upon which they travel. Sansa can almost see the euphoric cloud following them as they enter the room upon which they have fought so hard to claim.
Sansa wishes to run far from here; far from the capital and far from the battle. But she knows she cannot, not when they are in front of her and would string her from wall to wall if she was to do as she so wished.
Sansa trembles as she holds her sword out, tears trailing down her cheeks as they continue forward. Be brave, her father murmurs, be brave, Sansa.
Sansa hears Joanna wake, turning her head against Sansa’s shoulder.
“Be still, my love,” Sansa whispers, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Mama?” Her daughter asks, her voice groggy with sleep.
“Mama’s here, my wolf,” Sansa says, holding her tighter. “Mama’s here.”
They continue to walk forward and all Sansa can think of is Elia Martell. Not my daughter, she prays, not my daughter. Not my daughter. Do not let Tyrion be right. Do not let them kill my girl.
Sansa knows the silver-haired woman is the Queen of the East: Daenerys Targaryen. But the other two who flank their Queen are mysteries, two far from her sight and too dark that she cannot identify.
Be brave, she tells herself, be brave.
“My name is Sansa of Houses Stark and Baratheon,” Sansa says, summoning as much bravery as she can.
She thinks of her father, who had faced the crowd on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. She thinks of her sister, who would launch herself into any battle. She thinks of her mother, who birthed babe after babe with fear far from her mind. She thinks of her poor brothers and knows that she can be brave. I am what they could not be, she thinks, and I shall be brave for them.
“I am wife to King Joffrey Baratheon and mother to the heir to the Iron Throne. And I am surrendering the city and Westeros to you, Daenerys Stormborn.”
The man on the left halts as she speaks, stopping in his tracks.
“Queen Sansa,” The silver-haired Queen says. “Where is your husband?”