Framed and Dried
Before she opens her eyes, Sansa hears birds chirping, and she stretches, listening, refusing to allow reality to color her simple enjoyment of the morning. The bedclothes, tangled around her waist, must have fallen from her shoulders in the night, but she isn't cold, even though her window is open.
Sunlight pours in and pools on the ground, the ruffling curtains casting small shadows in the brightness. Sansa loves bright, warm days. Here in this city that she so longed to visit, that she has now come to hate, sunshine and warm breezes give her hope that life will not always be so bleak. That someday, she'll be home again.
She lies in bed, thinking of nothing, for as long as she dares. Although she has nothing she must do, the maids report her activities to the queen, who will sweetly say she must need more activities to fill her time if she has enough leisure to spend the morning in bed. Sansa used to love sewing in the solar, stitching a perfect seam to the sounds of the harp and the other ladies' light chatter; or strolling with the other ladies in the garden, but now every pastime she once took pleasure in is tainted with the knowledge that this is Joffrey's castle, that she will soon be his wife.
As she pushes back the blankets, something rustles. She looks to the foot of the bed and forgets, for a moment, to breathe. There's a lovely blue silk dress there, one she's never seen before. She brushes the skirt lightly with the tip of her finger. Although she has many pretty gowns, this one is especially beautiful. And costly, she notices. The bodice is embroidered with silver flowers and leaves, and Myrish lace trims the long sleeves. A scroll rests on the skirt of the gown. She picks it up cautiously. Who has left this for her?
The scroll is sealed with the king's seal, and Sansa drops it back on the bed. Joffrey has given her gowns and jewelry before, as if they'd make up for the loss of her father. But he isn't trying to compensate, of course. He wants her to look beautiful, worthy of the title of queen. Sansa knows that she's lucky she's pretty. If she had been plainer, she wonders, would she be dead already? It's a sobering thought that she does not wish to dwell on.
A gift from the king cannot be refused. Sansa touches the scroll, then breaks the seal.
My lady,
I've been somewhat preoccupied lately with matters of state, and I haven't seen much of you. I hear that you've been keeping to yourself lately, and I'm sure you must be lonely. I will send the Hound for you after breakfast, and we will walk in the gardens together. Wear this dress. I like seeing you in blue.
Sansa sets the letter down, bewildered. He sounds not like himself. Yes, he's commanding her, but in an almost kindly manner. She knows she cannot trust him. He was kind to her before, when he said he would be merciful to her father. But she's tried to be good, tried to earn his favor. He hasn't had her beaten lately, but as his letter said, she hasn't seen all that much of him, either. Is this some trick? Or does he still care about her?
She allows herself to briefly remember their first walk and her happiness with her beautiful, golden betrothed, before the day was spoiled. The birds were singing then, too, before they were hushed by Arya's shouting.
But dwelling on the past too long makes her ill with misery, so she instead turns to her new gown. Its loveliness cannot be entirely spoiled by the fact that Joffrey is the one who has given it to her.
Her maid knocks on the door and enters, pouring warm water into Sansa's basin. She washes her face and sits so the maid can brush her hair.
The maid tugs too hard as she twists Sansa's hair into curls, and Sansa remembers her mother combing and curling her hair the night before the feast, just before she left Winterfell. Her mother was always careful with the brush. Sansa wishes that someone would be gentle with her again. Her maid jabs her twice with hairpins while pinning back her hair, but when she's finished, Sansa is pleased with the effect. Her hair looks much the same as it did that night, pinned back at the sides with curls hanging loose past her shoulders. She hopes Joffrey will remember seeing her then, remember thinking her sweet and beautiful.
When Sansa's breakfast tray is brought, she's nervous and at first only toys with her food. But then she worries that her stomach might rumble while she's walking with the king. She doesn't want to offend him, so she forces herself to eat some bread, breaking the pieces into smaller crumbs so that she can swallow them easily. Nothing tastes right to her anymore.
She puts the new gown on and studies what she can see of her reflection in the small mirror. The color does suit her well, she knows. Hopefully Joffrey will be pleased to see her in his gift. Sansa steps outside her door to wait for the Hound. He unsettles her, and she doesn't want him in her room.
"Why are you outside?" He asks when he arrives.
"I wanted to be ready to see the king without delay," Sansa lies easily.
The Hound snorts, but he doesn't challenge her answer. She follows him through the castle and out into the courtyard.
Joffrey waits with two of his knights outside the gardens. "My lady Sansa," he calls out, smiling. She's seen many of Joffrey's smiles by now, and most of them bode ill for her. Today she can see no maliciousness in his expression, but she knows from experience that this means nothing at all.
"Your Grace," she curtsies, grateful for the long sleeves that hide her trembling fingertips. After everything, it is impossible for her to not fear Joffrey, no matter how his mood seems.
"You look very pretty," he says, his eyes traveling the length of her body. He has to look up a bit to meet her eyes, and she's uncomfortably aware, not for the first time, that she is slightly taller than he is. Men don't like that, she thinks. Someone must have told her that once. She has no understanding of what men do and do not like, except in vague terms. Generally, they all seem to enjoy food, ale or wine, and the company of pretty women. As for what men do not like, well. She knows what Joffrey doesn't like. That's really all she needs to concern herself with, she thinks. If she can please him, nothing bad will happen to her.
"Thank you," Sansa says hurriedly, remembering that he's paid her a compliment. "Thank you so much for the dress. It's lovely, the loveliest gown I've ever owned. It was very kind of you to order it for me, Your Grace."
"Shall we dispense with formalities today? You are to be my wife. Why don't you call me by my name?"
This is new, Sansa thinks. "If you wish, Y-Joffrey."
"And the gown was nothing." He waves his hand. "You wear the same few dresses. I can't have my lady looking poorly attired."
Ah, so it was concern over his own image that moved him to gift her with a new dress. But Joffrey continues.
"Besides, I wanted to give you a gift. I know you like pretty things. I have another gift for you, later," Joffrey says. His eyes flicker in the sunlight, but before Sansa has time to feel a chill, he's stepping forward to offer his arm. Sansa takes it, slightly bewildered. "Hound!" Joffrey snaps. "Bring the basket." He turns back to Sansa, his face clear of his momentary irritation. "Shall we walk?"
"Yes, of course," Sansa agrees, somewhat dazed. But she cannot be dazed, she knows. She must be careful. He's pretending to be kind for some reason. It's likely a trick or trap.
Flowers grow along the paved path, and Sansa makes certain not to crush them with her skirt, enjoying the feel of grass and flagstones under her slippers.
"How is your life here? Is there anything I can do for you?"
Sansa has no idea how to respond. After all his cruelty, he suddenly cares about her happiness? "Your mother sees to it that I have everything I need," she says. "Of course I'm very happy here. I'm looking forward to the day we can be wed." The lie comes more easily to her lips each time she repeats it.
"Yes. Our wedding. It'll be soon," Joffrey says. "You'll finally be mine." His smile curves across his cheeks sweetly, and Sansa feels a little thrill in her heart. Perhaps he's regretting his cruelty. She doesn't think she can ever forgive him for executing her father, but if she has to marry him, she may as well make the best of her situation. She's hardly dared to hope he might be kind to her again. But why is he treating her differently now?
"Your Grace, I mean, Joffrey," Sansa begins, without really thinking about what she intends to say. "Might I ask you a question?"
"Of course, my sweet." Joffrey turns toward her smartly, swinging back the skirt of his black coat. His heels almost click. He favors her with a wide smile, showing his teeth.
He is handsome, Sansa thinks. She swallows hard, knowing that this may ruin the afternoon, ruin the prospect of any future kindness. "It's just that you're being so kind to me today. I've been trying to be good, to please you, but it never seems like I'm doing the right thing. I know my father was a traitor, but are you still punishing me for his crime?"
"No, of course not," Joffrey laughs. "I'm punishing you for your own good. So that you're fit to be my queen."
tbc.