Chapter Text
Winter, 301 AC, King’s Landing
At 15, Sansa Stark had thought of that first party spent accompanying her parents and older brother to the Baratheon New Year’s Gala as her formal introduction to the political arena. Though, in truth, she was born to politics given her family name.
This party felt like an inaugural appearance, an initiation of sorts. The Prime Minister’s annual black-tie event, unnecessarily stuffy even for the elites of Westeros, saw every powerhouse and their progeny in attendance and it was Sansa’s first time at such an event.
She knew she’d recognize most of the attendees from their yearly “Holiday Greetings!” cards that were sent out every winter like clockwork. The cards weren’t actually cards at all, but highly stylized family photos with cheery seasonal sayings printed across the bottom which provided all recipients with updated pictures of the major families in Westeros.
Her mother Catelyn often likened the barrage of Sevenmas cards to receiving an influx of end-of-the-year reports, each one bragging about the major accomplishments of each family over the last 365 days. Every single one of them tried their hardest to maintain the illusion of perfect familial unity to bolster their campaigns, the Starks included.
(Their most recent family photo featured all five children on this year’s greeting card posing with their five new wolfhounds in front of Winterfell’s ancient Weirwood, paying homage to the Old Gods while keeping with the spirit of the more commercialized Sevenmas. It was Sansa’s favorite one to date.)
The eldest Starks had landed at King’s Tourney Grounds Airport late that afternoon in King’s Landing and they didn’t waste a moment checking into their ostentatious hotel suite at the top of Visenya’s Hill. Her parents wouldn’t have minded a more frugal accommodation but Uncle Robert had insisted by footing the bill, likely to incentivize them not to skip the party. Sansa certainly didn’t mind a little southron luxury during their adventure, and she suspected her brother Robb did too when she saw the appreciative look in his eye upon entering the lobby.
After freshening up and donning their formal wear, Ned ordered them a town car to get to the Red Keep. Sansa’s father’s aversion to driving, especially in the cramped city, was public knowledge. Catelyn kissed him softly on the cheek following the closing of the car door.
The discreet-yet-large black car rounded the back street behind the Great Sept of Baelor on the way down the hill - which had been converted into the campus for King’s Landing University some 300 years prior - before descending into the city proper. They ended up taking River Row to reach Aegon’s High Hill, the silhouette of the towering Red Keep dominating the skyline for most of their drive, before being deposited right outside its main gate.
Ned presented their invitation to security at the outer gatehouse and they were finally escorted to the gate of Maegor’s Holdfast. Past this gate and over the drawbridge was the heart of the Red Keep.
She couldn’t wait to text Jeyne later and thought about getting photographic proof. To make it this far inside the Red Keep was a rite of passage in itself! White string lights followed them into the inner yard, shining brightly between the crenellations, hazily illuminating the night sky.
Heat lamps that lined the bridge gave them a warm welcome and seemed strategically placed throughout the inner yard to keep the chill of the night off. This type of open-air party wouldn’t be possible in Winterfell where the temperature regularly hit the negatives. Thankfully, the winter here was mild as evidenced by all the Starks forgoing any winter wear over their attire.
The huge oak doors with dark iron fixtures that must usually shutter the holdfast were propped wide open to reveal the queen’s ballroom, allowing the eye to be drawn up to the high vaulted ceiling. The walls were lined with dark intricate wood panels with relief carvings that shone from recent polishing and reflected all the lights, brightening what would otherwise be a gloomy room.
Servers circulated throughout the room with glasses of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. While this room was probably much more intimate than the great hall, it still contained nearly 200 people scattered about in amorphous groups. They were forming and disbanding without any apparent pattern that Sansa could see.
Already, Ned and Robb broke from the Stark women to immediately join a nearby group. Robb shadowed their father like an old pro, greeting other statesmen intimately and doing his best to follow in Eddard Stark’s footsteps.
Sansa stayed close to Catelyn.
Sansa’s reserved nature rarely threatened to turn into inconvenient shyness but she was feeling completely off-balance and overwhelmed. She glanced at her mother who maintained her ever-present and unflappable smile, and Catelyn’s calm presence helped center Sansa (and her nerves) as she endured introductions with good-natured temerity.
Bright, feminine laughter caught her ear from a cluster of partygoers, and Sansa easily identified Margaery Tyrell looking as perfectly composed surrounded by a group of male peers as she’d appeared on her family’s Sevenmas card. The boys and Margaery were all around Sansa’s age, although probably closer to Robb’s age. She knew for a fact that Margaery’s older brother Loras, who was standing at her elbow exchanging quips with Renly Baratheon, was Robb’s age since they both started university this year.
Margaery was exactly the type of “enthralling southron socialite” that Septa Mordane cautioned her and Arya against as examples not to follow, what with their lack of restraint and questionable virtue. Conventional Northern wisdom would have Sansa keeping a wide berth of the group solely on principle, despite their families running in similar circles.
But Sansa was possessed with the extreme self-awareness that despite what her Septa advised her, she was inevitably drawn to strong personalities. She’d never tell Septa Mordane, but she was secretly appreciative of the boldness her Septa told her that she couldn’t afford to express as the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North, although Margaery’s position as the only daughter of the Warden of the South didn’t seem to stop her from immersing herself in high society.
“Margaery seems to be flourishing,” Catelyn murmured to Sansa, noting where her daughter’s attention had been called. “The Queen of Thorns must be pleased.”
Sansa’s eyebrow quirked imperceptibly at the reproving moniker of Old Olenna Tyrell.
Though Sansa felt a surge of validation at being treated as her mother’s confidante, surprise also rolled through her. Catelyn usually kept such comments to herself until they were in the safety of their home. She playfully looped her arm through her daughter’s and urged Sansa forward.
Sansa sometimes forgot that her mother was once her very own brand of “enthralling southron socialite”.
Catelyn took them on a path counter to her husband’s, and circled the room. In passing, she accepted a glass of champagne from a server without taking a sip, and declined one for her daughter.
As they meandered the room, Sansa listened carefully as Cat continued dropping seemingly innocuous tidbits about the undercurrents surrounding them: comments about the distance between Uncle Robert and his wife Cersei on opposite sides of the room; the lack of distance between Oberyn Martell and his paramour Ellaria Sand dancing obscenely close; Stannis Baratheon looking particularly tense between his wife Selyse and his (rumored) advisor-turned-mistress Melisandre; Twyin Lannister castigating a server for allowing his grandson Joffery to indulge in too many glasses of champagne.
Sansa couldn’t help but smirk at that last one.
The night was turning into a crash course on Westerosi politicking, with Sansa gleaning a new interpretation to the phrase “the personal is political.” Her father frequently gave his children lectures about the merits of civil servitude, though Sansa usually tuned out when he started talking about becoming public servants. If this was the “game” these politicians played, she might not mind it so much.