Sansa sat at the great wooden table, her hair stirred by the warm breeze coming in through the open windows. She picked delicately at her dinner, roast pheasant served in a fine sauce; though she had been hungry earlier, she found that dining with the queen dulled her appetite. She sipped at her cup of wine and found it cloyingly sweet. Queen Cersei had already finished one cupful and had started on another.
'Sansa, darling, is the pheasant not to your taste? Would you prefer that I had another dish brought up from the kitchens?' Cersei asked, smiling. You would almost think her kind, Sansa thought, marveling not for the first time at the queen's beauty. She could make people love her, Sansa knew. Sansa had loved her, once, before she had learned of the ugliness that the queen's beautiful face concealed. You would think her as charming as her smile.
'Your Grace is too kind,' Sansa replied, carefully. Be careful, she thought, be very careful. The queen was not like Joffrey; a wrong word would not get Sansa beaten. But she was still cruel, and Sansa feared to anger her. 'The dinner is wonderful, but I find the heat has taken away my appetite.' Sansa lied more easily now.
'Yes, the heat is oppressive, isn't it? Though Maester Pycelle warns us not to complain, that winter will be here soon,' Cersei said, sipping at her wine. She smiled again, and this time the smile was taunting. '"Winter is coming", aren't those your house words, little dove?'
Yes, Sansa thought. Yes, those are our words. And you will come to know them when Robb takes Kings Landing; when he takes your son's head, like Joffrey took my father's head. Sansa prayed every night, to the old gods of her father and the new gods of her mother. She prayed for Robb to save her and hurt those who had betrayed her. Robb is coming for you, she thought. Winter will come for you all.
Sansa smiled meekly. 'Yes, your Grace,' she said instead.
Cersei's smiled twitched, as though she could not decide whether or not to be pleased with Sansa's obedience. 'Your words will be different, though, once you've married the king,' Cersei said. 'You'll no longer be of the North. You'll be of House Lannister.'
'The day of my wedding will surely be the happiest of my life, your Grace,' Sansa replied. Her face was a mask; she carefully hid the disgust she felt at the thought of Joffrey's hands on her body. It felt like worms crawling beneath her skin.
Cersei's eyes held anger now. Servants carried their finished dinner from the table. Please let the queen send me away soon, Sansa prayed silently. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed, away from the cold green eyes of the queen.
'Yes, of course. You'll be queen then, won't you? It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?' Cersei said, softly.
No, Sansa thought. Not anymore. I just want to go home, I want my mother and Robb and Winterfell, even Arya. I want my father. She was unsure what to say. Finally, she replied. 'I only pray to be half the queen you are, your Grace.'
'You're so courteous, aren't you, little dove? A perfect little lady, always pleasing to the eye and ear. I suppose you're a princess, now that your brother has declared himself the King in the North,' Cersei said, softly. Dangerously. Careful, thought Sansa. Be careful.
'My brother is a traitor, your Grace. My mother is a traitor, too. I'm loyal only to King Joffrey, my beloved,' Sansa said. She waited, barely breathing. Recite your lies, little bird, she thought, and in her head she heard the Hound's raspy voice. Pretty little talking bird. Wear your mask. Courtesy is a lady's armour.
'You'll wed the king as soon as you've flowered. Perhaps by then this whole messy war will be done, and your brother will be dead. Would you like that, little dove? With your treacherous brother dead, there will be nothing to oppose your wedding to the king, nothing to divert his attentions,' the queen said.
Sansa tasted anger in the back of her throat; it was hot and salty, like tears. She stared at the wooden table, at the little lions carved into the edges, and forced herself to answer the queen. Her voice came from far away, as though it weren't hers at all. Perhaps it wasn't; perhaps it was the little bird's voice.
'Yes, your Grace,' she said. Her voice sounded hollow. She feared that the queen would know she was lying, but Cersei seemed not to notice. Sansa wondered what her father would have said. He would have told the truth, she thought. And he would have lost his head. She thought of her father, of his solemn face with its gray eyes. She took strength from his memory. She thought he would forgive her for lying. Once Robb comes, I won't have to lie anymore. I can shed my armour. But not yet, not now.
Cersei toyed with her glass, now empty. She had grown bored, Sansa noticed. Please, let me leave, she thought. Let me go.
'You're such a little fool,' Cersei said. 'A pretty little fool.' There was still anger in her eyes, Sansa saw, but there was sadness there as well.
After a moment's silence, Cersei spoke again. 'Leave me now, Sansa. Go back to your chambers, little dove.'
Sansa sighed inwardly, relieved. She rose from the table and curtsied deeply. 'Yes, your Grace. Thank you for the lovely dinner.' Cersei did not deign to reply. It was all Sansa could do not to run to the door and all the way back to her chambers.
It was only after Sansa had returned to her chambers and sent away her handmaidens that she could remove her armour. She took it off carefully, slowly, knowing that she would need it again the following day, and the day after that. She sat in her bed, thinking of her father and her mother and her brothers and her sister, and of home. She thought of Robb killing Joffrey and the queen, and it frightened her how badly she wanted to see them punished. Punished for Lady and for her father and for herself. She wondered what had happened to the sweet, innocent girl that she had known in Winterfell, a thousand years ago, but she knew the answer. She died at the Sept of Baelor. She died the day Joffrey showed her her father's rotting head and made her taste her own blood when he had her beaten.
Tears sprang to her eyes then; they were ever close to the surface, waiting for the moments when she was truly alone. She let herself cry when she was alone; she hated to in front of Joffrey or the queen. She hated to give them that satisfaction, to see the glee in those green eyes that they shared. Perhaps when Robb came, she would see Joffrey cry again, the way he had at the Trident when Arya's wolf had bitten him. She wondered whether she would find his tears sweet, the way he did hers.
Sansa felt the warm breeze of Kings Landing caress her face and thought instead of the summer snows in the North. She thought of cold snowflakes on her cheeks, instead of the hot tears that had become too familiar. The North remembers, Sansa thought. Robb will come for me. The North remembers, and winter is coming.