A/N: A whim that struck a little while ago, imagining what Sansa's first nameday alone must have been like. Warnings ahead for Ser Dontos being a creep, Joffrey being a dick, and Sandor Clegane being himself. GRRM owns all and good on him for creating it, too.
Sansa wakes at dawn without knowing why. She had been dreaming something wonderful, she knows, something with sunlight and green fields, fur and freedom, but the harder she reaches for the memory, the more elusive it becomes. With a soft sigh she stirs from her bed, wrapping a plain robe over her sleeping shift and stepping out onto the small balcony overlooking Blackwater Rush. It is her fourteenth nameday, and she is all alone. At the creak of her door opening she turns away from the first light of the rising sun and tries to smile at a cluster of maids waiting tentatively by the entrance to her room.
The girls whisper among themselves then the boldest steps forward, bobbing a curtsey and offering a small package of wrapped cloth. "We heard this is my lady's nameday. We brought you a present."
"Thank you, Mara. Thanks be to you all." Taking the wrapped cloth from the servant, Sansa takes refuge in the truth that anyone had cared to remember the date, even if they are mere servants. Around her, the girls go about their tasks, drawing open the huge carved shutters on the windows, tidying the tousled bed, fetching a basin of cool water, laying out the finest lightest clothes she has for the day.
"I heard say the Queen had ordered a feast tonight to celebrate my lady's nameday." Mara makes the announcement as she busies herself with brush and comb to bring order to her lady's tangled auburn locks.
"It was supposed to be a surprise, she said." The scolding comes from an older girl, airing the bedding over the balcony.
"Wasn't the Queen who said it though, was it. Just Sam the Baker's wife, and what's she know?"
Sansa whispers a silent prayer of thanks any and all of the Seven might be listening for the forewarning. Perhaps the Queen would be kind to her on her nameday; it truly is the only gift she desires of the Lannisters, this day or any other. A moment of reflection and she thinks another prayer directed at the Mother and the Crone to protect the servant Mara from any wrath that might happen upon her for sharing this tidbit of gossip. Once they lace her bodice and finish plaiting her hair, the serving ladies leave her. She takes a moment to study herself in the long polished mirror; pretty, yes, well and simply dressed, but no more a woman than she had been yesterday. It's something of a disappointment, truth be told. She wants the woman's strength of her lady mother, but perhaps fourteen isn't yet enough time to grow into such a thing. Maybe she'll have it next year. In the reflection of the room she spies the wrapped gift left by the girls and lets her curiosity distract her from her musings. A careful tug and the cloth unfolds to reveal a small square of yellow lemon cake. Her mouth waters, but it is time that she break her fast with the ladies of the court, and so she returns the wrapping and sedately makes her way to the small hall where the meal is being served.
Her breakfast nibbled to completion, she follows the Queen's ladies like a good little girl to the pleasant sunny room where she spends most of her days sewing. A septa thrusts a long swathe of dark grey silk at her as she enters, "Altar cloth for the Stranger today, my dear. See to it you stay to the pattern this time."
Sansa blushes, folding the delicate material in her arms and hurrying to take her basket and perch by the window where the light is good and the wind is cool. She had meant to follow the design on her last task, but her mind's eye had continued adding details until the fabric bloomed raucously with eye-smarting and impious colors. That septa had chuckled about it, saying that the Maiden would love it all the same, but this septa seems more rigid, and somehow she doubts the Stranger shares the Maiden's love of vibrant flowers and fat honey bees. She smooths the silk threads in her basket, pulling out skeins of white and black and red, and sets to work picking out the details of his mask and cloak and horse, ears keen for any interesting conversation.
There's a dearth of anything truly worth listening to; for a long while a debate rages over what reasons Lady Eleanor Mooton might have had for scorning the advances of Ser Imry Florent in favor of Squire Dickton and what a shame it was that such a nice girl had so little between her ears and my gods someone should have told her that brown was never a good color for a summer gown, even if it was buried beneath a barbarous amount of her father's gold. After a thoughtful analysis of the current fashions, they agree that pale green would have been a more fetching color and wouldn't the Queen in her deep emerald gowns look stunning beside the young heiress?
Eventually one of them remembers the young Stark Lady in the corner and swoops over with a clicking of beads and a swish of her gown to examine her progress. "Oh Lady Sansa this is stunning! Truly the Smith smiles upon you today." Her cooing summons the others over, and they jostle each other gently to gaze upon the stitching.
With gentle words of thanks for their generous praise, Sansa extracts herself from the group, murmuring her excuses and folds her work up to hand to the septa. Her back aches and her fingers have long since cramped; she could do with a quiet walk and some air away from the stuffy solar. A bell reverberates calling the noon hour, and for a moment she considers going to lunch, but it will be even hotter in a hall full of people and steam. The Godswood will be empty; maybe if she was feeling especially bold when she finished her prayers she would go for a swim, just like Arya or Bran so often did in Winterfell's sacred groves.
She's not feeling quite so bold when she arrives in the hush that cloaks the Godswood at all times of day. The noises she makes under the trees, leaves rustling and twigs cracking, are small in the great space. No direwolf ever felt this small, this… mousey. Her armor of ladyship is only a trick of the light here, so she walks before the gods' eyes vulnerable in her delicate slippers and thin gown. She kneels before the white and red trees of the old gods, faceless this far south, and wonders if maybe that's for the best. Maybe it's better that they don't see what goes on here.
Sansa hasn't been praying very long when the silence is cut by the cracking of twigs and shuffling of boots. She stands, brushing the leaves from her skirt. "Ser Dontos. I didn't expect to see you here." He wouldn't endanger her by coming here; surely her Florian, her last hope, wouldn't lead any curious guards to their meeting place and her sanctuary. Maybe at long last he bore news of his plan to deliver her from King's Landing, make her safe.
The knight turned fool gives a wine-y belch and bows to her, "Oh Jonquil, my beautiful lady. How could I leave you all alone out here?" He edges closer, drinking again from the flagon that is his constant companion. "I heard tell it was your nameday this dawn, my lady. I come to you with a gift, a humble small thing unworthy of your beauty and your station, but all this poor fool can give."
Her heart races with excitement and she steps closer, fr he could only be speaking of one thing. "When do we leave?"
Ser Dontos blinks his damp eyes, tossing the flagon aside to take her small white hand in his thick sweaty fingers. "Please my lady, sweet lady, the plans are ever ripening. We should not speak of it in the light of day. You must trust me, bad fool and worse knight I am, but you have my life and my sword and I will not let them keep you here a moment longer than I must." He's close enough now that she can feel the heat from his breath, the suffocating smell of cheap wine as sour as her abrupt disappointment. "I brought you the same gift that all foolish Florians bring their lady." From somewhere in his sleeve he produces a small flower, orange and gold petals crushed slightly.
"A jonquil?" She had never seen one before, supposedly they grew only in the Summer Isles or Dorne, and were supposed to be beyond the talent of most gardeners to produce in glass gardens.
"Aye, a jonquil and a kiss." And he presses his thick wet lips against hers, letting the pretty flower fall through this fingers as he wraps an arm around her shoulders, pawing at her braids.
This is no kiss like the songs; there's no delicacy , no decency to it. For an absurd moment Sansa wonders if this is how it feels to be a jug of wine: his tongue pressing against her spout, teeth biting and scraping against lips that she keeps pressed in a thin line. You're a wolf. Fight. There's no one here to save you. Ladies don't fight, she wants to whine, ladies are to be protected. A small treacherous voice that sounds a bit too much like her mother whispers through her mind: A lady keeps her honor. A lady does her duty. There is no cost too great for a lady to pay for these things. Sansa Stark still has her honor, and she still knows her duty so with a burst of courage she shoves the big drunk man with all her strength. He reels back, as much from wine as surprise at her resistance. Arya would be proud, she thinks ruefully, staring stupidly for a moment, before turning and sprinting into the forest.
Ladies don't run quickly or well, though, and sooner than she likes she has to slow to a walk, panting, legs trembling with exhaustion. The trees are no longer the red and white of the Godswood, just plain brown and green extending as far as she can see. Maybe if she keeps walking this way she'd come out the other side of the forest, and be able to escape King's Landing for good. It could be an adventure as grand as any she's heard sung. A child's fancy, and she is a child no longer. She isn't cunning like Arya or brave like Robb. What does she know of running away from home, of sleeping in the dirt and eating bugs? She leans against a tree, bark rough through her thin gown trying to find the strength that quiet wood always brought her family. She feels nothing but the hot summer wind in her hair, so she turns and slowly picks her way back to the grounds of the Red Keep.
A few scant hours later and she's once again staring into the mirror as a girl laces her into a white dress so light and delicate it's scarcely more than a whisper against her skin. It had been waiting in her room when she returned from her walk in the woods, a nameday gift from an anonymous friend, a servant girl had told her. Sansa smooths the lace against the ivory muslin of her shift and corset, adjusting a thin strand of pearls around her neck as the girl finishes pinning her hair. Be brave, she mouths at her reflection. You're the lady of Winterfell now. You're a woman. Whatever happens, be brave and be courteous. A small whispery sigh escapes as a knock sounds at the door. Shoulders back and chin up, she gestures for the maid to open the door, and drops a slight curtsey for Ser Meryn waiting in the hall.
He bows, flat brown eyes never leaving her face, "Lady Stark." And when he offers her his arm, an arm that's been raised against her so many times before, she takes it with all the grace she can muster.
Think of the Maiden. Think of the Godswood. Think of Winterfell but do not think about the last time he touched you with this arm. It's hard not to recall the blows, despite her silent instructions to herself. Staring straight ahead she can pretend it's Jory or Fat Tom or Jon escorting her; someone she can trust, but doesn't have to like. Someone she can be a little less than perfectly polite Lady Sansa to, and hold her tongue.
The herald's announcement rings out, and she enters the hall lit by a thousand candles and the fading light falling through colored glass windows. She can feel hundreds of eyes on her as she approaches the dais, sweeping a deep curtsey before the king and his regent. "Your Grace."
Cersei, stands from where she sits at Joffrey's side and spreads her arms with a chime of golden bracelets in a gesture of welcome. "Lady Sansa, be welcome in our hall this night and all others." A graceful flick of her arms gesture Sansa to a seat of honor by Joffrey.
The young king smiles at her, honey and poison. "My lady is beautiful beyond compare tonight. Your fourteenth nameday; we will be wed soon." His mouth brushes softly against her knuckles, and he allows her to sit. On an unspoken command, servers come forth with sweet summer wine and the first course of the evening.
She sits quietly beside him, smiling prettily and nibbling the morsels he offers, drinking the wine he orders poured for her as he boasts of its quality, partaking in such conversation as befits a great lady and the betrothed of the king. Maybe the gods heard her prayer for kindness, she reflects while murmuring praise of Joffrey's bravery for the royal hunt he rode in today. He's a terrible vile person, but she doesn't want to question this sudden gentility, or the hand he rests on her leg.
The daylight is gone when the Queen Regent declares it is time to begin the ball in Sansa's honor. There's a sound of movement that stills when Joffrey raises a hand, "I would give my lady a gift now, Mother." A squire silently brings forth a simple box of polished wood that the King flicks open to reveal a glittering necklace, silver bent into a circle of many curving flower petals. "Kneel."
Carefully she kneels before him, eyes fixed on the gilded scroll work of his fine white boots, sweeping the handful of loose braids over her shoulder to ease his access to her neck. A wolf would never bare its throat to a lion, but she's no wolf. She feels the ribbon of pearls slide off, hears the soft sound they make against the stone floor, replaced by the cold metal of his gift. It's heavier than she had expected, more of a collar than a necklace, but she looks up into his eyes and smiles, "Your Grace is too kind."
He bids her to rise, "I had it made special for you. My betrothed deserves the very best of everything."
Sansa stands, strangling a small cry as one of the petals jabs her unexpectedly. Erect, she can feel the keen edges digging painfully into the soft skin on her chest and back. Did he hear her cry out? Will she be punished for not being appropriately thankful? When she takes his arm, meeting his eyes briefly, she can see the satisfaction and pleasure shining within.
As he escorts her to the adjoining hall her eyes go wide. The sun has gone down, but the candles have been placed behind globes of colored glass to dapple many colored patterns across the floor and attendants. She can't help the unladylike gasp at the scene, "Oh, it's so beautiful." Never has she witnessed something of this majesty before.
Beside her, Joffrey frowns. "It was supposed to make pictures like the windows do. I'll have them flogged for this. Or hanged. Dance with me." With the first strains of music he leads her to the center of the hall, moves one hand to her back and twines his fingers through hers.
It would be a lovely dance under normal conditions, but with every motion comes a new pain from her gift and Sansa doesn't dare make a sound. Maybe she should cry out, give Joffrey what he wants. But it's just as likely that he wants her to complain to justify further torments. It isn't fair. She's a good girl, a proper lady, courtesy must be her armor, but how can it protect her from this?
"Look at me."
She dares not disobey, and stares into her King's beautiful face as he whirls her around, greedily drinking in the small expressions of pain and fear that flicker across her face as he jars the decoration around her neck cutting deeper with every motion.
"Do you like my gift?" He smiles like a cat in the cream. "It's Valarian steel; first of its kind."
Nothing takes an edge quite like Valarian steel, but a Stark temper comes close. "I will treasure it always." She promises, vowing silently: I'll give it to Robb. He can have it forged into the sword he will kill you with.
Joffrey purses his lips with displeasure, leaving her as the song ends to find some wine, or another woman, or some other malevolence. For a moment Sansa thinks herself free, but then a lordling from the Riverlands bows over her hand, and the next dance is his and after that there is another waiting to guide her across the dance floor, and then another. They smile at her and praise her skill, but if they see the little red rivers trickling down her skin seeping into her pretty dress they don't dare mention it or try to spare her the pain of larger motions. To her it feels like a dream: pretty lights, pretty partners, pretty music, pretty steps. Only the constant agony of the necklace makes it real.
At long last the King declares an end to the festivities, and she's free to follow a crimson cloaked guard back to her chambers. Sansa leaves him at the door, and gestures impatiently at the maid hesitating by the washbasin to come help her. Just hold it together a little longer, then you can be weak and sad, hurt and lonely. "What are you waiting for?"
The woman comes forward, eyes locked on the trinket around her neck and the stains on her gown. Gingerly she takes down the twining braids of hair and spirits the sweat damped slippers away. Her eyes are wide as, with no further way to avoid it, she touches the back of the necklace, fumbling at a catch before pulling away with a hiss of pain, sucking on a sliced finger.
As carefully as she can, Sansa turns her very best cross lady stare at the servant. "What are you waiting for? Hurry up and take it off!"
"Oh no, my lady," The words come out a hoarse whisper. "There's a curse on that metal; put there by the Mad King himself, most like. I'll not be getting cursed by any witch magic." She turns on her heel and flees, leaving Sansa very much alone.
She wants to shout and yell and threaten a flogging to the woman for her incompetence and her lies. Cursed ornament of the Mad King, what horseshit. She can't reach the back of her neck without risking more grievous wounds, but she's not ready to give up hope and resign herself to the impossibility of trying to sleep in the horrid device. When she attempts to rotate the collar, though, the edges of the petals cut deep into her fingers, and she does cry out then, in frustration and in pain. A beating would almost be preferable; if nothing else they were direct and over quickly. She sits there for a long time, caught up in her own helplessness and unhappiness before gathering her wits again. Sitting here feeling sorry for herself won't help anything; just because she was stupid enough to let them collar her doesn't mean she's not smart enough to get out of it. Maybe she could find one of the septas to help her, or a maester. Better to try than sit here until she falls asleep and stab herself to death on the dangerous decoration around her neck. She hesitates before going out the door; should she grab a covering to disguise herself with? It would go poorly for her if a guard caught her and decided she was trying to escape. On the other hand, she might be even more conspicuous in a cloak on a stiflingly hot night. She sighs and stares at the garments on the wall before scolding herself for stalling, and slips out as she is.
Sandor Clegane is pleasantly drunk; sober enough to tell the ceiling from the floor and drunk enough not to question his motives for being in this part of the Keep on his night off. Not drunk enough to get the vision of Sansa Stark in white lace on her knees before Joffrey Baratheon, curse his luck. There probably isn't that much wine in the Seven Kingdoms. It had been a blessing and a curse when the little boy king had come, ordering him off to terrorize some imbecilic servant or other. He hadn't been listening to the complaints his master had; he had been watching her dance and smile prettily at some other man under a blaze of many colored lights. A little violence and more than a little wine had been a welcome distraction from the memory of her slim white neck bared before hundreds of hungry eyes, on her knees before them with her eyes on Joff's feet and only one thought to be had betwixt every man in the room with a working cock.
The sound of a bare feet slapping against stone distracts him from the memory, and he doesn't know if he should be grateful for the distraction or angry at the interruption. At the sight of hair shining scarlet by candle light, he knows he's angry. It's one thing to fantasize about the girl when she's safely out of his way and quite another when she's standing not a dozen steps away from him. "If you're going fly the coop, little bird, you should put some shoes on first."
Sansa tries to draw herself up, but she'd need stilts to close the difference of their height. "I'm not running away, I…"
"Just out for a midnight stroll unattended. Of course. Going to meet one of your pretty dance partners for another round?" As she recoils at his implication, he wonders if she might be doing just that. Her hair is down, tumbling free to her waist, but she hasn't changed out of that tantalizing lace dress hinting at the skin beneath, or even removed her jewels. The idea of her dancing across the sheets with one of her pretty knights enrages him. He lashes out, catching her shoulder and dragging her closer, invading her personal space as her smell, her warm softness, delves into his nose, his skin. "Do you pick all your partners based on how nicely they dance?"
The little girl-bird whimpers, clawing helplessly at his arm with warm wet sticky fingers and he can smell it now, a coppery tangy edge to the flower water and sweat smells that cling to her skin. A blood smell. He looks down at her, briefly catching her staring up at him with an expression rich in pain and fear, seeing dark marks where her fingers scramble against his arm, and for a moment Sandor Clegane feels an absolute certain calm. He's going to kill someone; whoever it was that drew blood from this girl will die. Tonight. Right now. For a single glorious instant he's not an ugly drunk brute; he is a man and his purpose rings in his ear like any clarion call to battle. With supreme effort to be gentle, he takes her hand, turning it palm up in his to get a better look at the deep wounds across her fingers. "Girl. Little bird. Who did this?"
There's a terrible quiet to his voice she's never heard before, and she looks up helplessly, staring into grey eyes the color of good sword steel, her free hand gesturing helplessly at the circle of points encircling her neck.
She's not looking at him so much as right through him; he finds it unnerving. She's seen enough, she doesn't deserve to see anything as terrible as the Hound's soul. No one deserves that. It's a relief when she releases his gaze, returning to stare at her toes, his chest, and he follows her gesture to the necklace Joff had presented her with at the feast, metal gleaming like gold in the candle light. He doesn't notice it at first, too distracted by the bare skin and pulse fluttering just below; stupid of him. He blinks and sees the rusty stains on her skin, staining the cloth and wonders if he should make good on his wish to kill her tormentor. Being a kingslayer didn't seem to weigh too heavily on Jaime Lannister; it couldn't be so much worse than what he already is. "Turn around."
She jumps at the growl of his tone, but turns her back to him, gathering her hair over one shoulder to get it out of his way and complies when he orders her to step closer to the light.
As carefully as he can, he works the line of clasps binding the device to her neck, hating himself and Joffrey and her stupid songs as she chokes on a cry and fresh blood flows from her back. He doesn't even notice the metal gouging his flesh as he undoes the last clasp and yanks it from her neck until she's cooing and chirping over the wet red lines on his hands; bloody fingers fluttering against his skin. Gruffly he shakes her touch off, "Quiet your little beak. I'll live." With a bit more care, he palms the metal collar into his belt, fingers brushing against the purpose which had originally brought him here.
She gives the air beside his head an indignant look, "Are you stealing from me, Hound?"
"Yes." He answers simply, murdering the urge to laugh at her gall, reaching out to touch a teardrop shaped wound by her clavicle, and changing his mind at the last moment to push her gently in the direction of her room. "And if the King ever asks you what happened to it, that's the song I want you singing." He hates that she won't look at his face now, but it's only fair tonight. He won't be able to look at himself either after letting her endure such collaring alone. Helplessness is an ugly feeling. He needs a drink now, badly, and so he gives the little bird another shove towards her room, remembering the item he sought to return to her only when they're in front of her door. He scratches himself on the steel in his belt extracting it, but it's well worth it for a brief look of gratitude she gives him, him, not his chest nor his boots nor the space to the right of his head, and he feels an uncomfortable surge of elation as he closes her hand around the ribbon of pearls and walks away before the burning fire of her skin, of her hair, of her blood truly make him mad.
Sansa watches the Hound's retreating back turn the corner, still clutching the jewelry he had stuffed into her hand before storming off. For all her exhaustion she is free and light and happy at this brief shining moment, and for a moment the wolf swears she'll never be collared again.