AN: Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.

Chapter XXIII – Sansa

Lord Varys, has not, as yet, sought her company.

Sansa knows however, that her barbed words in the Rose Garden have taken root, for the Lannister handmaiden Cersei assigned her with, has been replaced with a girl who could not be anything but one of the Master of Whisper's little birds. Dark haired and gloriously sun-kissed, the girl is young, younger than the last handmaiden who served her, but older than Sansa's body is in this life. Her accent, reminiscent of Shae's, is foreign but subtle, her heritage, if Sansa were to take an educated guess, would stem from somewhere within the Free Cities.

The girl has not yet given Sansa her name, but Sansa finds herself remarkably at ease as the new handmaiden sweeps her chambers, fluffs her pillows and straightens her sheets; competent, courteous, courtly, the girl is a far cry from Shae's blunt, inefficient stumbling as her handmaiden in her last life.

An unexpected boon, yet welcome, in this life without Tyrion's veiled protection and Shae's guarded affection; Kings Landing is different she finds, with eyes not so naïve and years of experience beneath her belt. Sansa will not trust as she did in her last life, that this handmaiden's loyalties are hers alone, for she knows now, unblinkered as she is, that Shae had her own motives for coming into her service in her last life. It was not until she was returned to Winterfell and attended by Myranda, that Sansa recognised the covetous gaze the Kennel Master's Daughter directed at the Bastard Bolton, as one similar to that of Shae's when she looked upon Tyrion Lannister. Two husbands, one, named monster for his appearance, and the other, named monster for his nature, and the two handmaidens who loved them; Sansa offers a quick prayer to the Old Gods that she'll not cross paths with the second... without Jon's blade in her hand and an army at her back.

"The more people you love, the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do. You'll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children... on that front, a mother has no choice."

The handmaiden continues her work, and Sansa wonders suddenly if she would not prefer the demons she remembers, to the Spider she is entertaining in this life. She knows the Master of Whispers only by the actions she heard tales of in her last life; his claim of serving the realm as a whole yet playing the game of thrones as the Silver Prince did the harp, handing the Dragon Queen both Dorne and the Reach, on a platter covered in the ashes of the Sept of Baelor.

A kick sounds upon the door, and Sansa turns.

"A message, from the Queen Mother, Lady Sansa."

A breath, and Sansa nods to her handmaiden, who heaves the solid door open without hesitation. One of Cersei's, Sansa notes immediately, appraising the golden-haired youth in the threshold.

"Queen Cersei requests your presence in the Royal Apartments."

It's a demand, painted prettily as a request, and Sansa nods her acceptance easily – Cersei's chambers are just as she recalls; light, airy… pretty – it fits, Sansa thinks, in an odd way, considering the façade Cersei projected to the Seven Kingdoms prior to the unfortunate rumours Stannis Baratheon has circulated regarding the circumstances of her children's births.

A veritable feast is laid ready on the table, the golden flatware gleaming in the soft light and a pitcher of sweet red Arbor wine at each end. Cersei lounges at the head of the table, cheeks flush and a half-empty glass goblet in hand; Sansa dips into a low curtsey, her expression carefully blank as she regards Cersei – the Queen Mother is deep into her cups, and Sansa thinks it is this, more than anything else, that tells her just how well the War of Five Kings is going for House Lannister.

"Your Grace." Sansa demurs, rising gracefully after a careless wave of Cersei's bejewelled hand. She sits, at the opposite end of the table, offering sweet smiles to Tommen and Myrcella, and receiving equally sweet smiles in return; there is nothing of Cersei in them, Sansa notes, no poison or cruelty, only kindness and an endearing naïvety that reminds her shockingly of Rickon. Sansa thinks of Brienne, and the fond expression her sworn sword had failed to hide, on the rare occasion she spoke of the Kingslayer – mayhap, Jaime Lannister could be a good man, mayhap, it was he from whom Tommen and Myrcella gained their sweetness but Sansa does not hold out hope for the man the Kingslayer became in her last life, to rise again in this one.

Silence hangs uncomfortably in the air as their goblets are filled with wine – Sansa reaches first for the tray of Applecakes, and places one each on both Tommen and Myrcella's plates. The two children smile, and the silence breaks, Tommen eagerly filling it with tales of the tiny black kitten he found alone in the kitchens.

"Have you thought of a name?" Sansa asks softly, as Cersei sneers into her goblet at the other end of the table.

Tommen nods, his smile wide and childish. "Yes, he's called Ser Pounce."

Sansa smiles – it is the mark of an innocent child she thinks, to name a pet so simply. "Do you wish to become a Knight?" He nods again, and Sansa is reminded suddenly that, however briefly, Tommen was King of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Uncle Jaime was Knighted when he was only fifteen name-days." Tommen says quietly, fiddling with his fork. "I don't think I am as good as him."

"Ser Barristan the Bold was sixteen name-days when he was knighted." Sansa leans closer, her voice naught above a whisper. "Prince Rhaegar had lived seventeen name-days before he was knighted... and Joff, well, we just celebrated his seventeenth name-day, and he is not a Knight at all."

Tommen's bright grin returns, and Sansa cannot help but return it.

"When will Joffrey and Sansa be married?"

Sansa's smile fixes as Cersei looks toward her daughter. "Soon, darling, when the war is over."

Myrcella smiles sweetly her attention turning back to Sansa. "Mother says I'll have a new gown for the ceremony and another for the feast."

Sansa nods – she remembers this conversation well, how Myrcella's words had stoked the ever-present fear into a raging flame and how quickly her mask had cracked, under Cersei's scrutiny. "Yellow I should think," Sansa begins, enjoying the thunder brewing in Cersei's expression, "it would look beautiful with your skin tone."

Myrcella nods happily, "Your dress will be ivory, since you're the bride, but when Joff cloaks you, our colours will match!"

"My sweet girl, you will have to wear a gown of red and gold, as Joffrey will be cloaking Sansa with the same marriage cloak my Lord Father bestowed upon my Lady Mother."

Sansa smiles sweetly, and thinks that if she is ever cloaked with another Lannister marriage cloak, she will raze the Red Keep to dust. "I'm counting the days until the fighting is done and I can pledge myself to my love, in sight of the Gods."

"If I am ever Queen, I will make them love me."

Her love… Sansa thinks in their last lives, had he not drowned beneath the Heart Tree and woken them here, she would have loved him endlessly. She recalls her Father's words and wonders; would Eddard Stark, knowing the truth of Jon's birth, have fostered a match between them had she wished for it?

"Someone who's worthy of you, someone who's brave and gentle and strong."

No, she thinks, for in doing so, her Lord Father would have had to reveal Aunt Lyanna's secret – and he'd never wished for Jon to be burdened by a crown.

"Is Joffrey going to kill Sansa's brother?"

Sansa's eyes do not stray from Cersei's, who smiles cruelly into her goblet. "He might. Would you like that?"

"No." Tommen shakes his head, his voice small. "I don't think so."

"Even if he does," Cersei fixes her with a vicious grin, "Sansa will do her duty… won't you little dove?"

"Family, duty, honour."

"As you did, Your Grace." Sansa returns demurely, watching the fury play across Cersei's fine features – in her last life, it was long after she had escaped Kings Landing, that Cersei had begun to truly display her madness, but Sansa can see the spark of it in the Queen Mother's eyes now, not brought on by the deaths of her beloved children, but by the continued failings of her Lord Father's military campaign.

"Senelle." Cersei calls loudly, "Return Sansa to her chambers."

Senelle, red of hair and green of eyes, stands out among Cersei's parade of Lannister born handmaidens, and Sansa had wondered often in her last life, just how she had been assigned to the Queen Mother.

"Come Lady Sansa." Senelle requests, moving Sansa's chair back from the still laden table, and taking her arm in a soft grip. She's returned to her chambers swiftly, a Red-Cloak dogging their every step – it strikes Sansa as she watches her new handmaiden turn down her bedding, that it was after this disastrous meal with Cersei, that Shae had come into her service.

"Thank you." She murmurs, pulling the covers tightly around herself, despite the heat. "Leave me, please."

The handmaiden nods, and Sansa finds herself alone again – sleep, claims her quickly, and when she wakes in the darkness, she is seeing through the eyes of another.

The only light she sees is thrown from the wood burning low in the makeshift hearth, shadows dancing wildly on the canvas walls. She pads forwards; her legs work differently, four instead of two, and she realises, once again, she exists within Lady.

She feels them, her pack, whole and alive, Ghost, Nymeria and Grey Wind, close, so close, and Summer and Shaggydog, far, but safe, home – Sansa's never felt more whole. Beside the fire stands a man, dressed in fine silks and leathers, his face is bruised, but he stands tall, his hair turned copper by the light of the fire. AT his feet, Nymeria, head resting comfortably on her front paws, the pup on her back small, wild, Arya, the part of her that is Sansa whispers and nudges the pup-girl softly with her nose. Arya wakes, groggy, but smiling.

"Lady." She groans, "M'sleeping."

They smile as one, Lady and Sansa, a wolfish grin that has Arya offer a tired wolf-grin of her own, and rest her forehead on theirs.

"I miss her too." Arya whispers, and the part of Lady that is Sansa wants to reach for her; and hates that she cannot do so... so they settle, for watching over the two-legged pup, as she curls back up and falls into a peaceful sleep atop Nymeria. The tent flaps open, and Sansa feels the breath stolen from her sleeping body, as she looks upon the men in the doorway, through Lady's eyes. Robb and Jon, armoured and strong, with Grey Wind and Ghost at their back – they meet in the middle and Lady greets her pack-mates with excited yips and soft nudges; they, just as Nymeria, can sense her presence within Lady.

They stop at Jon – and through Lady's ears she can hear Robb's whispered words as he steps past, and greets the man, clasping their hands together tightly "Thank you, Ser Loras.", they watch him pass, and she hears Robb kneel in his armour, a soft rustle lets her know, that just as their Lady Mother did when they were children, he is sat beside her, carding his fingers through her hair. They tilt their head, sitting back on their haunches and look up at him. Jon falters, and she watches a myriad of emotions play in his eyes.

"Sansa." He breathes, and she feels him, his hand resting heavily on their head and Sansa wishes, not for the first time, that she hadn't run to Kings Landing, to play the game of thrones. "You're a warg."

Sansa wakes with a gasp, seeing again, through her own eyes. Warg... she remembers Old Nan's stories, of the men who could see through the eyes of their bonded animal, a gift, from the blood of the Children of the Forest that still runs wild through the Stark Bloodline.

"Bad dream?" A voice simpers from the corner of her chambers, the scent of lavender touches her nostrils and Sansa eyes him, his robes are a muted brown, and not the bright oranges and purples of his usual day-wear.

"I dream of my family Lord Varys." Sansa answers easily, straight backed and betraying none of the nerves she truly feels. "No dream in which I see them, could ever be bad."

"Indeed." He murmurs and turns, allowing Sansa to slip from her bed, and cover her shift with a robe. "House Stark continues to defy expectations."

"Oh?"

"The songs my little birds have sung; the North, despite their sons' off winning the war, becomes more fortified by the day, daughters learn the trades of their fathers, leagues of unoccupied, wasted land has been farmed and there are whispers of a trade agreement between White Harbour, Pentos and the Free Cities." He states coyly, sitting easily on the rollback couch below her window. "Lady Catelyn proves herself formidable… as does her Son."

Sansa steps out onto the balcony, the breeze is cool for the South, but not cool enough to soothe her – the Red Keep sits at the peak of Aegon's Hill, and while much of the city is blanketed in darkness, the forges within the Street of Steel burn as brightly in the night as they do in the day. "Robb got the best of them." Sansa answers finally.

"I do not doubt." Varys agrees. "His lieutenants took Oxcross in the night – Stafford Lannister is dead, and the youngest sons of our esteemed Lord Hand have joined their cousin among the half-hundred highborn hostages."

"My brother did not fight at the head of his army?" She asks, despite knowing the truth of Robb's location.

"It is the oddest thing," The spider drawls, "it seems that Renly Baratheon after his hasty retreat from Kings Landing found himself a throne and a Queen in Highgarden."

Sansa flicks her eyes to him through the window. "Truly?"

He nods. "The King in Highgarden stopped on his path east at Bitterbridge, and who should meet him, but the newly crowned King in the North and the Trident." Varys stands. "I, mistakenly believed that it was your Lord Father, Seven rest his soul, that had your sister spirited from Kings Landing among a party heading for the Wall, and yet, my little birds informed me different – Arya Stark was reunited with the Bastard of Winterfell under the watchful eye of Queen Margaery."

"Queen you will be... for a time. Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful."

A smirk touches Sansa's lips. "I imagine the return of my sister, safe and whole, will foster enough goodwill that an Alliance between House Tyrell and House Stark will surely follow."

Varys joins her, looking over Kings Landing with veiled disgust. "Robb Stark is your Lord Father's son, and he, just as young Eddard did when faced with the opportunity, will refuse to sit on the Iron Throne."

"Yes."

"The Seven Kingdoms will need a King."

Sansa glances at his soft face, so unassuming and forgettable – it is this, she knows, that has allowed him to gain so many secrets and so much power. "House Stark will not allow House Lannister to remain on the Iron Throne."

"And what of House Baratheon?" Varys smirks. "Tommen is but a child, he would be easily moulded."

"Tommen is kind, but he is weak and with Cersei as his Regent, he will rule no more than Robert Baratheon did." Sansa turns, leaning back against the Balcony. "Tell me Lord Varys, when Robert claimed the Iron Throne, did he do so through conquest alone?"

The spider stiffens, and slowly, shakes his head. "Through conquest and blood."

"I know my history Lord Varys. Robert's father Steffon, was the only son of Ormund Baratheon and his wife, Rhaelle Targaryen." Sansa replies. "Ironic, isn't it, that Robert raged his rebellion on behalf of my house, and then built his Kingdom on the bones of his Grandmother's."

"And what is House Stark's plan, if their King will refuse the throne?" Varys asks mockingly. "I hardly imagine the son of Eddard Stark will allow the Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea to take her rightful seat."

"It is as you said, Lord Varys, the Targaryen girl is across the Narrow Sea. Renly Baratheon will never sit on the Iron Throne whilst Stannis lives to fight his claim, Balon Greyjoy, despite his wishes will never rise above Lord Reaper and my brother, no more wants his crown than Joffree will give his up. Who, Lord Varys, would you have on the Iron Throne, for the good of the Realm."

"When high lords play the game of thrones, it is the innocents that suffer." Varys murmurs, "How many smallfolk perished in the sack of Kings Landing? Thousands. Hundreds more were injured in the riots that followed, and in the subsequent moons, woman after woman birthed golden-haired bastards, gifts from the Red-Cloaked soldiers that raped and pillaged their way through the city. But what does that matter? There are always more smallfolk."

"You want a King of the People." Sansa states.

Varys looks to her. "It is a worthy dream, is it not? A King, who truly serves the realm."

A worthy dream, she thinks and turns her eyes back to the city laid out before them in the darkness. "On the steps of the Sept of Baelor, you stopped me, 'best not to make a scene little wolf' you said, 'it would not do for you to join your Father on the block.'. Why?"

"You are an innocent." He answers easily, lightly, and Sansa wonders if he still believes so. "Your Lord Father, for all his misguided honor was a good man. He loved his children and forsook his honor, to save your life. I would not have you waste that."

Sansa nods. "And had he not been my Lord Father? Had I been born to Cersei? Would you have saved me then?"

Varys eyes her, his gaze hard, and searching. "What do you know, little wolf?"

"Tommen and Myrcella will not survive Kings Landing." Sansa answers, leaving the spider alone on the balcony, and climbs back into the too large bed. "The innocent never do."

AN: Sansa plays and the Spider listens and plots.

Thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed - I know it has been a long time since this has been updated, and for that I apologise. This story will never be abandoned, but unfortunately, 2018 was quite honestly, the worst year of my life. I lost one of my best friends to suicide, and my grandmother to cancer and unsurprisingly, i was not in the right head-space to dive back into this fic. For everyone who has stuck with me, left kind words and encouragement, I cannot thank you enough.