Chapter Text
The floor of the throne room of the Red Keep is just as cold and hard as she remembers it when she kneels before the Iron Throne, now occupied by Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, a tiny girl around Sansa's own age. Sansa has heard so many things about the dragon queen -- that she's a monster, that she's a saviour, that she's mad, that she's wonderful -- that she has no idea what to expect from her when she's haulled down from the reconstruction of Winterfell to see her.
Sansa is comforted, at least, by the fact that despite the fact that she's been made to kneel before the queen, the only other people in the room are Daenerys herself and Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of her Queensguard. She -- or possibly Tyrion himself -- seems to have had the foresight to keep her Hand out of this particular meeting.
"Sansa Stark," the queen begins, "I apologize for having you brought down from the North for this. My nephew assures me that there is plenty of work to be done at Winterfell still." It's odd to think of Jon as the nephew of the queen, as her cousin and not her brother, but according to the Targaryens, at least, it's the truth. "Of course, for your family's role in my father's demise, I ought to have left it a smoking ruin, but both Jon and Lord Tyrion have assured me that I should leave your family be, that you've suffered enough in my absence from Westeros. And from the stories I have heard, I am sorry that Jon dealt with the Boltons before I had the chance, though I suppose he had the right."
Sansa has no idea where the queen is headed with this chain of thought. Surely she did not ask Sansa down from Winterfell to King's Landing simply to say horrible things about her family and remind her of the Boltons' atrocities.
"Of course, the real reason I have had you return from the North is not related to Winterfell at all. With your younger brother in place as Lord Stark and Jon acting as Lord Protector until he comes of age, it should be quite stable for the time being." She looks expectantly at Sansa.
"Yes, Your Grace," she says, simply for something to say.
"Therefore, it is time that a match was arranged for you."
Her heart seems to stop beating in her chest for a moment. What kind of husband would she suggest for Sansa, after saying that she wished Winterfell was still a burnt-out ruin? Surely she does not mean for her to wed Tyrion again; it took so long and so much work to have the Faith annul their marriage that she doesn't think she could take such a step again. While Sansa knows Tyrion had little and less to do with the deaths of her family, and most of the few kindnesses she remembers from her first years in King's Landing were at his hands, she can't forgive him for being a Lannister.
"A match, Your Grace?" is what she says instead.
"Yes, Lady Sansa, a match. You are ten-and-seven and unwed; it is time. This would normally be the duty of your lord brother, or your lord cousin as his regent, but I cannot trust Jon to put the needs of the realm before his affections for you and make you a proper match. So I, as mother of the realm, have taken on that responsibility myself."
Sansa is still dazed by the news. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Queen Daenerys smiles. It is much more terrifying than it should be. "I have already spoken with your betrothed, who has agreed to the match. He assures me that Highgarden is lovely this time of year."
"Your Grace?"
"Lord Tyrell," she says, as though it were obvious. "We spoke briefly about his home before I informed him of my decision. He too should have been wed long ago, and as much as I would have liked to pull those roses up by the roots, I have been informed that Lord Mace's head should be sufficient, as he was the one responsible for their alliance with the Lannisters." She clenches her hand into a fist as she says the word Lannisters, as if the current Lord of Casterly Rock is not serving as Hand of the Queen right now. "Thus I have arranged a match between your two Houses. I'm sure you have much to discuss."
After the Queen has dismissed her from the throne room, Sansa returns to her chambers, desperate to be alone. A marriage as punishment for the two of us, she thinks. And with Willas Tyrell,of all people. Does she know about Lady Olenna and Margaery's plan? It seems so long ago that the ladies of Highgarden were plotting to spirit her away from King's Landing to wed Willas, and she still remembers how determined she had been to make him love her then, though of course events had transpired in such a way that they never met. She wonders if he is truly as gentle and scholarly as Margaery had tried to convince her back then, or as boring as Littlefinger had once said. Sansa no longer harbours any illusions about these matters; she knows that his true nature is likely between the two. She can live with that, she thinks. Better a slightly dull husband than a cruel one.
Their wedding will take place in King's Landing, under the queen's watchful eye. She is gracious enough to allow it to take place in the smaller sept of the Red Keep rather than in the Great Sept of Baelor as she had originally proposed, but a quiet word from Ser Barristan and Lord Tyrion had convinced her not to force Sansa to the site of her father's murder. Instead her second wedding will take place in the same room as her first.
"I am sorry about the venue," Tyrion says to her as they depart one of the queen's briefings -- apparently she is making a lot of matches among the Houses and is holding these meetings with each individual involved. "I know it likely holds some unpleasant memories for you, as it does for me."
"It is not ideal," she admits to him. "But I would rather remember that than the day Joffrey cut off my father's head while I am being married."
He looks at her then, a curious expression in his mismatched eyes. "I feel that you have changed a great deal since we last met, my lady."
"Sufficient time with Littlefinger will do that," she replies, remembering the grim satisfaction she had felt when Jon had thrown him down in the snow and taken his head off with his Valyrian steel sword. He had reminded her so much of Father, then, and she had cried later that night remembering how she had treated him in the past.
"Yes, I suppose so. Is it true your brother -- cousin -- kinsman of some sort took his head?"
"Yes," she says, and it is cold as winter.
Not unexpectedly, she does not meet Willas Tyrell until the day they are married, despite his status as a fellow (prisoner) guest in the Red Keep. Daenerys keeps them far apart, roomed at far ends of the castle and shepherded around the grounds by one of her Queensguard at all times. Her first sight of him is him standing before the altar of the sept.
He looks much as she expected, tall and thin like his brother Loras with the same curly brown hair and large amber eyes as his siblings. Unlike Loras and Margaery's constant smiles and carefree bearing, he looks unnecessarily serious, his face carrying a certain worn quality that likely speaks to his injury and the more recent stresses he and his family have faced. Sansa wonders if she has a similar look now. As Olenna had bluntly told her when she was a little girl, one of his legs is crippled; he stands with his weight on his other leg and a cane in his hand.
When he speaks his vows, his voice is so quiet that someone in the back shouts for him to speak up. He looks so shocked that Sansa nearly bursts into hysterical giggles, but he does finish his piece in a louder voice, and his hands are steady when he puts the green-and-gold cloak over her shoulders. When it comes time to kiss her, he hesitates, making a May I? gesture with one of his hands, and she smiles genuinely for the first time that day and nods slightly.
The kiss is surprisingly pleasant.