In the times of men and their politics, especially within the realm of princes and princesses, viscounts, marquises, and even simple barons play a vital role in the drama of power. Most believe that knowledge is power—gathering information on one another, spying like honeycomb owls, always watching each other's backs for secrets to exploit.
Some think wealth is power, splashing their gold and coins to get what they desire, reveling in the freedom it provides while imagining they hold some semblance of control. Even those lesser beings gifted by the gods with magic insist that mana is power. Warriors like Kury root their philosophy of strength in the brutal simplicity of raw physical force.
But only those at the apex truly understand who were Born and bred into it, following the people by their side, They, only they knew the ultimate truth.
'POWER is power,' Sansa remembered once more as her fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of her apron, knuckles white from gripping fabric so tightly it might tear. She could feel his gaze on her even before she stepped inside—those piercing eyes that had seen centuries' worth of betrayals, manipulations, and schemes unfold within these gilded walls.
"Sansa," he called weakly, his voice barely audible over the distant crackle of firewood burning itself into ash.
"Yes, Your Highness?" she replied softly, her tone measured yet trembling slightly under the weight of something unspoken between them. Something dangerous.
Henry lay propped up against pillows. His face was pale, almost translucent, veins visible beneath paper-thin skin like rivers carved into stone. But his eyes—those damn eyes—still burned with an intensity that refused to dim, even as death loomed closer with each labored breath.
"You were a talent from the beginning," he rasped, coughing violently mid-sentence. Blood flecked his lips, dark against the stark whiteness of his complexion. "I actually wanted to…" Another fit seized him, cutting off whatever revelation lingered on the tip of his tongue. "…put you by my side while I ruled."
Sansa froze, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. This wasn't part of any script she'd ever envisioned. Not for a maid born without title or privilege, who clawed her way through life using nothing but wit and observation. And certainly not for someone like HER, whose existence should've been inconsequential compared to kings and queens playing their games of thrones.
"But…" Henry continued after regaining some semblance of composure, though his voice remained frail. "…I knew the vixen would bite you too. So I gave you to my son instead." He paused then, studying her reaction with predatory curiosity. "And do you know what?"
She didn't answer immediately, unable to peel her gaze away from the abyss staring back at her through his hollowed-out sockets. Instead, she waited, letting the question hang heavy in the air like smoke refusing to dissipate.
"No need to look at me like that," he said finally, his lips curling upward into a faint smile tinged with both pride and regret. "I just want to say—it was the best decision I ever made. Maybe you were the reason my son changed in the end. Maybe not." His words dripped with ambiguity, laced thickly enough to choke a demon. "Your plan to make Atlas king—it was admirable, truly."
For a moment, Sansa felt as though the ground beneath her feet had crumbled entirely, leaving her suspended in midair with nothing but raw instinct keeping her upright. Her throat went dry, parched like desert sands baking under relentless sun. Was this how betrayal felt? Or perhaps acknowledgment? Either way, it left her reeling..
.
.
A younger Sansa stood hidden behind tapestries woven with scenes of conquest and glory—the perfect camouflage for someone desperate to remain unseen. Below, nobles whispered conspiratorially, exchanging secrets like currency while servants scurried about oblivious to the machinations unfolding around them.
She watched intently, memorizing every detail: Viscounts leaning close to share hushed grievances, Marquises flashing bribes disguised as gifts, Barons boasting about wealth earned through questionable means. All of them blind to the truth Sansa understood instinctively—that power wasn't rooted in knowledge, gold, or brute strength alone. No, power was fluid, shifting constantly depending on who wielded it most effectively.
Even then, she knew precisely where her loyalty belonged—not to the crown, nor to any individual player vying for dominance—but to the game itself. Because understanding its rules meant survival. Winning meant everything.
---
Back in the present, Sansa blinked rapidly, dragging herself out of memories threatening to consume her whole. The room smelled faintly of decay mixed with medicinal herbs meant to mask inevitability—a futile attempt to prolong what fate demanded sooner rather than later.
"...was I that naive and blatant?" she thought bitterly, forcing herself to maintain eye contact despite the storm raging inside her mind. If Henry suspected anything—if he saw cracks forming along the facade she worked tirelessly to construct—then all bets were off. Every calculated move, every carefully placed word spoken solely to ensure Atlas ascended the throne… Gone. Reduced to ashes scattered by winds indifferent to human ambition.
But no accusation came. Only silence stretching endlessly until broken by another bout of coughing fits wracking Henry's frail body. When he finally spoke again, his voice carried finality sharp enough to cut glass.
"Do you love him?"
The question hit her like lightning splitting open stormy skies—unexpected yet unavoidable. For several agonizing seconds, Sansa couldn't breathe, lungs constricting painfully around emptiness screaming louder than any confession ever could. Love? What did *love* have to do with any of this? With politics, power plays, betrayals lurking behind every corner waiting to strike?
Yet somewhere deep within, buried beneath layers of strategy and self-preservation, a spark ignited. Faint but undeniable. A reminder that she hadn't chosen this path merely out of duty or obligation. There existed something else driving her forward—a force stronger than fear, stronger than logic. Something dangerously close to devotion.
"I serve him faithfully," she answered eventually, choosing her words carefully. "That is all."
Henry chuckled weakly, the sound rough and uneven like gravel grinding beneath boots. "Faithfully, huh? Interesting choice of words…" He trailed off then, closing his eyes momentarily as if summoning whatever remaining energy coursed through his veins. "Tell me, girl—are you prepared to burn alongside him when flames inevitably rise?"
Sansa swallowed hard, tasting bitterness coating her tongue like poison. Flames weren't unfamiliar territory; she'd danced among embers countless times before, emerging scorched but intact. Still, there was something different about this particular inferno licking at her heels now. Something personal. Terrifying.
Instead of responding directly, she straightened her posture, squaring shoulders burdened by responsibilities far beyond her station. "If necessary," she murmured resolutely, meeting his gaze head-on without flinching. "Then yes."