Chapter Text
The sky hung over the courtyard like a grey canopy. Far too low.
Her thumb stroked over the parchment paper whilst she took in the odd surface of what brought the news, from afar fixating the light blond hair of the little boy with his pink cheeks, huffing from exhaustion. His laughter resonated form the thick walls, ringing in her ears with a metal like clang. Every breath felt effortful, she felt as if her heart shook her with every beat.
He was dead.
“Your Grace, may I … Is there anything I could be of service with?”, the plump and friendly man asked. He stood behind her since she had taken the tiny scroll. The time his words took to arrive at her ears felt like centuries.
She blinked, her eyes eerily dry. Her head tilts slightly without turning towards him. “Thank you for letting me know of this immediately, Maester Orwyn. If you would be so kind as to leave me now, and please summon the council for tonight.” Her voice was steady, soft, but certain, leaving her Maester visibly confused and uncomfortable. He opens his mouth to speak, deciding, however, that even to breathe was too much, so he just nods and retreats from the roofed platform.
When the boy shouts something in her direction, gleaming with joy, she smiles, giving her best to let the smile reach her piercing blue eyes. He is a good boy. He deserves this happiness for one moment longer. Her hand rises to wave, but he already turned back to his sparring partner, the otherworldly tall sworn sword to his mother. A sigh leaves her as her thoughts begin to tear. So many questions. She will have a lot of sorting and prioritising to do until tonight’s meeting.
***
It is when she takes seat on the ironwood throne that her nerves settle. Feeling the wood under her fingertips grounds her. When she sits, the men of her council follow suit. “It is with great sorrow that I must inform you Lords of my husbands’ death. A raven arrived this morning.”, again, her voice is steady. There is no sign of said sorrow in it. She waited the whole day for grief to sweep her off her feet, for sadness to fill the colourless emptiness inside her chest. When she put the boy to bed, it came unsettlingly easy to her. Not telling him of the news came unsettlingly easy to her.
She wishes that she could have kept this a secret forever. To protect the boy. To keep the boy safe. But she has to live in reality and do her duty by her people.
Lord Karstark grunts as his fist hits the table softly. “That is unfortunate.”, he says. And the queen feels a strange kind of relief when her apathy is taken as stoicism by the attending lords, the lack of any apprehension or judgement visible. Her gaze falls upon the empty chair beside Lord Harrion, where his brother-in-law should sit. “Magnar Sigorn left for Last Hearth a fortnight ago, your grace. It seems my sister is in labour.”, Lord Karstark raises his voice again. The queens’ eyelids flutter slightly, as if the irritation over the unknown departure of her subject could be just blinked away. Then she remembers herself of Magnar Sigorns ancestory. He was a wildling after all, through and through. It would have been pointless to retaliate and would disturb fragile loyalties. She only nods.
“When will you leave then, your grace?” Lord Royce’s voice breaks the silence and it is as if her spirit awakes from a slumber. Her head turns towards him abruptly and her eyes narrow. “Leave?”, she asks, examining her Hand’s solemn face. It takes her by surprise. He seems equally surprised by her reaction, raising his hand in an outstretched manner, just to let the gnarled fingers sink silently on top of the table again, stroking its wood against the grain slightly. “Forgive me my rashness, your grace. It is only that the Vale is without paramount since two moons now and your son will need someone to guide him. I thought it best for you to supply that guidance, since you know the Vale just as well and are a wise ruler.”
The old man forgets himself, she thinks fondly. He grows older by the day and maybe his memory leaves him just as time forges ahead, but he is and always has been a valuable advisor. Maester Orwyn raises his brows when his eyes wander from the old man opposite to him over to the young woman sitting next to him. “Let us not make haste. For now, I will not leave, nor will my son.”, she replies sweetly, with a small smile on her lips, barely visible. “But your grace, the boy is his father’s heir.”, the Maester intervenes. The smile dies swiftly. “He is. But he is also my son. A prince of Winterfell. And he will not leave until this matter is fully investigated.” Lord Royce cocks his head, “Investigated?”. “Investigated. Two Lords paramount dead in the span of two moons is quite a reason for an investigation, is it not? To put the prince at such an unknown risk would be terribly unwise, don’t you agree?” Both the Maester and Lord Royce sit back, tucking their chins. “Apart from his duty towards the Vale, Lord Royce, he also has a duty towards the North, since Lord Harrold didn’t father any other children by me.” An ember of rage ignites the hollowness inside her, but she has the foresight to put it out quickly. She does not offer Lord Royce to ask the King, her brother, for legitimisation of one of Harry’s Vale-born bastards. There are plenty, she is sure of it. As well as there are plenty here in the North. The old man purses his lips under the white beard nonetheless, understanding the implication her words bear.
But why is he so uninvolved to the news of her husband’s passing? Lord Robert’s death did devastate him. Her face remains still as she asks herself the question.
Lord Karstark turns to Lord Royce. “Our queen is wise to decelerate. This matter, however, raises the question of succession again. The little lord – “, he clears his throat in a booming manner. “The prince, forgive me, cannot reign from two seats at once.” His words raise hackles all around the table. They thought they still had plenty of time to ensure for a second child, be it a girl or a boy. The Vale had its heir, that was the agreement. The firstborn son would inherit the Vale, not the North. A concession towards the then Lord Hardyng, so that he would finally marry the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish. Even after the revelation of his wife’s identity and after Winterfell was hers again, and after they survived the long night, and after they survived the war of the Three Queens, throughout which the little lord had been born, and after they were able to settle, after King Bran was crowned – Lord Hardyng did not budge. On the contrary.
Sansa remembered how his offended pride festered into something ugly. The husband to a queen. His gallant manners had turned into perfidy, his lovely and flattering words had turned into quips. His eyes and hands and cock had started to wander. It was then that she had found it wise to barr him from her chambers. Letting a man touch her intimately again had been hard enough. The thought and fear of a possible assault in drunken rage was too much to bear.
As much as she wanted to withdraw from the pact, the Lords of the Vale would let her know quickly that she would not get a pass on this.
The willowy figure of Lady Dustin finally moves opposite the queen. She leans in and fixates the young woman opposite her. “We are not yet ready for another war.” To anyone outside the council, her words may have sounded like a needless escalation, but there was a lot at stake and the crone was right to remind the young queen of her responsibilities.
“Winter is coming.”, the queen reiterates her houses words and closes her blue eyes meditatively. A puff of air leaves her nostrils almost without noise before she rises and then opens her eyes again, taking in the faces making up her council. “I will have to contemplate on our conversation, but for now, we should all retire. It is growing late.”