The Long Summer, 298 - 300 AC
The walls of King's Landing gleamed in the harsh summer sun, but to Sansa Stark, they felt like the bars of a gilded cage. The bustling streets and towering Red Keep offered no comfort, only reminders of the home she had lost and the father whose honor had cost him his life.
The capital smelled of smoke and secrets, a city where smiles were masks and every word carried the weight of hidden intentions. Sansa had learned that lesson too well.
A Stark Alone
After Eddard Stark's execution, Sansa's world had become a maze of fear and survival. The once-dreamy girl who had believed in songs of chivalry and romance was gone, replaced by a young woman who knew the price of naivety.
Joffrey Baratheon delighted in tormenting her, using her as a living symbol of House Stark's downfall. His cruel words were sharp as daggers, and his punishments—public humiliations, slaps, and worse—left both physical and emotional scars. But Sansa learned to endure. She held her tongue, bowed when expected, and feigned loyalty, all while hiding the burning anger in her heart.
"The North remembers," she whispered to herself in the quiet of her chambers, a mantra that kept her spirit alive.
The court was no kinder. Cersei Lannister played a cold, manipulative game, sometimes offering false kindness, other times reminding Sansa of her precarious position as the Lannisters' hostage. Tyrion Lannister, though more compassionate, was still a Lannister, and Sansa could not afford to trust him completely.
But it was Petyr Baelish who watched her with the most unsettling gaze—a gaze that spoke of plans and schemes Sansa could not yet understand.
Whispers of the Past
In the solitude of her chambers, Sansa often found herself thinking of her family. She missed Arya's wild spirit, Bran's quiet curiosity, and even Robb's stern but loving presence. But it was Jon she thought of most.
Jon, her bastard brother, who had been both distant and familiar, was now a ghost in her memories. She wondered where he was, if he was safe. She imagined him as the strong, silent protector she had never appreciated while he was near. In her darkest moments, she wished he were there to save her from this nightmare.
Little did she know that Jon—now Aemon Targaryen—had become a dragonlord across the Narrow Sea, his path entwined with hers in ways neither of them could yet foresee.
A Game of Survival
The days in King's Landing blurred together in a haze of courtly events, whispered intrigues, and carefully navigated dangers. Sansa learned to smile when she wanted to scream, to curtsy when she longed to run. She listened more than she spoke, gathering bits of information, storing them like weapons for a battle she wasn't sure she could win.
She watched as Joffrey's madness grew, his cruelty extending beyond her to anyone who displeased him. The smallfolk suffered, the nobles plotted, and the realm teetered on the brink of chaos.
Sansa began to observe the court with a new lens. She noticed how Cersei manipulated with sweet words and veiled threats, how Varys gathered whispers like coins, and how Littlefinger played the game with dangerous finesse. She learned the power of silence—how withholding a reaction could be as potent as wielding a sword.
One evening, during a lavish feast, Petyr Baelish approached her with his usual smooth charm. His smile was as polished as his words, but Sansa had learned to read the shadows behind them.
"Your mother was a dear friend," he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "I would do anything to protect you, Sansa."
Sansa met his gaze, masking her unease with a polite nod. She knew better than to trust promises in King's Landing. Everyone wanted something.
"Thank you, Lord Baelish," she replied, her voice steady. "But I am safe here."
It was a lie, but Sansa had learned that lies could be armor.
Learning the Game
In the quiet moments, Sansa reflected on what she observed. She began to see patterns in the chaos—how alliances were forged and broken, how words could wound deeper than swords. She watched Tyrion outmaneuver his sister in council meetings, using wit and strategy where brute force would fail. She listened to Varys' cryptic advice, understanding that knowledge was power.
Sansa started to play her own subtle game. She flattered when it was needed, feigned ignorance when it served her, and offered small truths to mask greater deceptions. The courtiers underestimated her, seeing only the naive northern girl. But Sansa was no longer naive.
She became adept at reading the room—the flicker of an eye, the tension in a smile. She learned to distinguish between genuine kindness and manipulative charm. Her greatest weapon became her ability to hide in plain sight, to be the perfect lady while plotting her escape.
The Rising Storm
As the summer stretched on, news from the North filtered into the capital. Whispers of Robb Stark's victories in the Riverlands reached Sansa's ears, filling her with a bittersweet hope. Her brother was fighting for their family, for their name, and though she was proud, she also feared what it might cost him.
Sansa clung to that hope like a lifeline, even as the world around her grew darker. She dreamed of escape, of returning to Winterfell, but deep down, she knew that the road home would be long and perilous.
And across the sea, a dragonlord was preparing to reshape the world