SANSA
Sansa had always liked sapphires. She tilted lightly up on her toes and lifted her waves of auburn hair to admire the effect of the heavy sapphire and diamond necklace in the mirror. Hung around her slim, pale throat it brought out the colour of her blue eyes, Tully eyes. For a moment a vision of her mother, Catelyn danced in front of her then faded as fast as it came. She didn't belong here. Her heart longed for the North, for her family, for Winterfell. Sansa wished she could see them all. Everybody. Her thoughts strayed for a moment to Jeyne. Jenyne loved pretty things, she would think this necklace simply divine. If she is still alive, that is. A wave of sadness washed over her and tears pricked in her eyes.
'You look beautiful 'ma lady' said her maid breaking her contemplation. Good, she thought, bitterness rising in her throat. Joffrey likes me to look pretty. Thinking of Jeyne had reminded her of the time she had first met the handsome, blonde young prince and how her tummy had fluttered and danced, filled with butterflies and the warmth of a promised kiss. Arya, though, had taken against him from the start. How could she see, him, truly see him for the creature that he was, and yet she had not? She prayed for Arya, prayed that her rough and tumble little sister had made it away, made it to the safety of Riverrun or the North.
A growl emanating from the shadows behind her made her start. 'Look at those fine feathers, little bird! It is such a shame your wings are clipped.' Sansa was used to the coarseness of Ser Sandor Clegane yet his words left a trickle of dread running down her spine. Was he sending a warning? Or, was it merely a cruel jape? Yet, of all of Joffrey's Kingsguard, the Hound was the least ill suited to foolery. Ferocity emenated from the very pores of his skin and his very presence evoked fear in those around him. Yet, he had never raised a hand to her like so many of her betrothed's men and he had been the one that had come back for her; had saved her from the mob and the rape and bloody murder that would have ensued. She had tried to thank him for that mercy but he had been angry. Sansa no longer feared him. That had left her the day he had told her about the violence that had been done unto him by his brother, Ser Gregor, the mountain that rides.
She swept around, pale blue silks sweeping round her legs as she turned to face him. Her maids stealing terrified glances in his direction, scuttled from the room. A retort formed in her throat and then faded away as her eyes met his. For a fleeting moment she saw something there. What was it? Sorrow? Pity? 'What is it?" she asked quietly. 'What has happened? Is it news of Winterfell. Or of Robb?'
He did not answer her questions. 'You are to come with me. The King wishes to have your audience, and you know he does not like you to be late.' Sansa's mind was racing. She searched his face looking for an answer, but whatever had been there was gone, replaced by a grim, unreadable mask. 'You will see, girl,' he finally said shortly and said no more.
Sansa, went to step forward, towards Clegane and the open door but suddenly her feet felt like lead; heavy and clumsy. Then he stepped forward and a strong arm caught round her and held her steady. Sansa leaned in, suddenly grateful for the big man's presence; to not be making this walk alone. They walked together arm in arm, the silence-hanging heavy in the air. People passed by, faceless people , heads bowed not daring to look their way. The Hound had that effect on people Sansa knew but she was glad their eyes were not on her. Then they were nearly there and she could see the oak doors of the Great Hall, the home of the iron throne fronted by two of the Kings Guard in their white cloaks.
On the sight of Ser Illyan Sansa's legs nearly gave way altogether. She felt a tremendous urge to run from this place, to flee from whatever unimaginable terrors awaited her at the hands of her betrothed. Clegane gripped her arm more tightly and rasped into her ear, 'Say what he needs to hear. Recite all those pretty lies your Septon taught you, little bird. Tell 'em and tell 'em well.'