Darry came into view again.
Sansa rode beside her husband, the man who gleamed like gold. No wonder they called him the Lust Demon, though he hardly seemed demonic to her.
The lords of the Riverlands had already departed, and the mountain clans had returned to the Mountains of the Moon to await the next summons from the Warden of the Riverlands.
Behind her, her sister Arya rode alongside a dark-haired, rough-looking bastard. What was his name? Gendry? A blacksmith, supposedly. Sansa couldn't help but sneer inwardly at her sister.
She had once imagined she would marry a prince. But look at Lord Tyrion—compared to him, Joffrey was dirt to gold. And what about Arya? She was plain; everyone called her Horseface. She would never find a husband like the one Sansa had.
She remembered their wedding night, how wildly her heart had pounded—ever since she burned Robb's letter, really—and her husband's teasing words: "My foreplay is as varied as warfare…"
Heat crept into her cheeks at the thought.
"Sansa?" her husband called.
"Tyrion." She lifted her head quickly and met his mismatched eyes—one green, one violet.
"Have you ever met your Aunt Lysa?" Tyrion asked. "Does she like you?"
"I've never met her," Sansa said. "She's my aunt. She ought to like me."
"Lord Petyr Baelish will like you," Tyrion said. "Your aunt… that's less certain. In my experience, middle-aged women are the most jealous. My sister certainly is."
Greatjon's booming laughter made her ears ring.
As they neared their destination, the gates swung open and Lyonel Frey came out to greet them. He was still the acting castellan of Darry and Harrenhal, and during this time both places had thrived. Her husband often boasted that even a barnyard hen could turn into a phoenix with a touch of Lannister blood.
Tyrion helped her down from her horse. Returning to Darry felt almost like coming home. The image of Winterfell was fading from her memory; she'd heard it was snowing there already.
"My lord," Lyonel said to Tyrion, "have you received the letter from Runestone?"
"I have." Tyrion took her hand as they entered the long hall, with Blackfish, Greatjon, and the others following close behind. They gathered in the hall of the Peasant's Keep, the fire crackling and filling the air with the sweet scent of fruitwood.
Sansa sat beside her husband, closest to the warmth.
"Other than myself, Ser Brynden, and Bronn, has anyone else seen Lord Robert Arryn?" Tyrion asked.
The others shook their heads.
"I'm wondering whether his death might actually benefit us."
"He is Lady Lysa's son," Ser Brynden said. "Without him, she has no right to rule the Vale. Even if the boy won't live long, we should drive Petyr Baelish out while he's still alive. Yohn Royce is a reliable ally."
"And who is Lord Robert's heir again?" her husband frowned. "I thought there were no more Arryns left in the Vale."
"Harrold Hardyng," Ser Brynden explained. "He's a page from House Hardyng, adopted by Lady Anya Waynwood. Under the succession laws of House Arryn, even though Harrold's Arryn blood comes through the maternal line, he is still the lawful heir to Lord Robert Arryn."
"Through the maternal line," Tyrion murmured. "Which line?"
"Lady Alys Arryn, sister to Lord Jon Arryn, married Lord Ely Waynwood. They had nine daughters and one son," Ser Brynden said.
"Seven hells, ten children?" Tyrion blurted. "Remarkable woman."
I could bear ten as well, Sansa thought.
"Lady Alys' only son, Jasper, was kicked in the head by a horse and died at three," Blackfish continued, sounding almost like a storyteller. "Her eldest daughter married Ser Denys Arryn, but she died not long after Ser Denys fell in battle, and her infant child died soon after."
"The Battle of the Bells," Greatjon added. "Ser Denys fought the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington, and was killed. I was in that battle myself." He looked at Sansa. "My lady, I fought beside your father."
Sansa nodded.
"Ser Denys was a distant kinsman of Lord Jon Arryn," Blackfish went on, "and he married Lord Jon's niece. Brave, handsome, courteous, a fine rider in the lists. The nobles of the Vale adored him and called him the Darling of the Vale. After Elbert Arryn, he was Lord Jon Arryn's first choice to succeed House Arryn."
Sansa felt a little dizzy. Perhaps the names didn't matter. All she truly needed to remember was that every one of them was dead.
"Two of Lady Alys' daughters died of smallpox while still children," Blackfish said. "One daughter was scarred by the disease and became a Septon. Another was seduced by a Sellsword; after her bastard died, she joined the Silent Sisters. A third daughter married the Lord of The Paps and never bore any children."
Sad tales, Sansa thought.
"The last daughter was taken by mountain tribes on her way to marry into House Bracken. The youngest daughter married a member of House Hardyng, bore him a son named Harrold, and died soon after."
"Which tribe?" Tyrion asked with a yawn.
"The Burned Men."
"Poor woman," her husband sighed. The fire snapped and flared, lighting his face. For an instant, Sansa caught a glimmer of something like delight there, faint and unsettling.
"Taken by the mountain folk, she wouldn't have escaped torment." Her husband shook his head and glanced toward the Sellsword; the two exchanged a look. "May the gods grant her mercy."
My lord is far too kind to feel anything but sympathy, Sansa thought. I must have imagined it.
"So Ser Hardyng is Lord Robert's heir," Blackfish concluded. "We can't expect Lord Robert to father children of his own."
"His seed may not hold," the Sellsword said at last. "I've traveled enough to know. A child like that, born to peasants—once those traits showed—they'd toss him into the river and call it the gods' mercy."
"But he's Lord Jon's son, of noble blood," Blackfish said, frowning.
"If he were truly like Lord Robert, we wouldn't have all this trouble," Greatjon said, and Sansa knew he meant Robert Baratheon, Joffrey's father.
"Lord Jon Arryn named his son after his foster son Robert, hoping he'd follow his example—father a dozen boys, bastard or not." Tyrion let out a loud laugh and drew Sansa close. "From this day on, Sansa is my only one."
Yes, my lord would never have a bastard, Sansa thought.
...
If you'd like to support my work and unlock advanced chapters, you can follow me on P@treon.
[Upto 50 chapters ahead for now]
[email protected]/BlurryDream