Joffrey Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne the way one sits with a stick up his arse. He looks uncomfortable in the massive chair, and it's obvious to everyone around him that he doesn't belong in it either. Sansa is standing to the back of the throne room, trying to avoid being seen. Her presence had been requested by the King's mother, and so she had no choice but to attend today's meeting, but that doesn't mean she can't stay unobtrusive. Cersei nodded her head to Sansa from her own chair slightly behind the throne when she walked in so she knows that her attendance has been noted. It's been an hour since the King's presence was announced to the people crammed into the room waiting for him, and all he's done so far is talk over the peasants pleading for help, and laughed at the lords' requests.
Has he never heard the expression, "You'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar?" Everyone on the King's Small Council seems to disapprove of the way he is comporting himself, if the way they constantly whisper in his ear is to be indicative.
"Well, now that the commoners are dealt with," Joffrey's thin lips pull into a grimace, "Where are we in the war efforts, my lords?"
The crowd of high lords titters at the King's attention, and Sansa can tell they are all nervous to have his direct attention. A tall, reedy gentleman steps forward to command attention.
"Your Grace, it seems that after the Young Wolf was killed, House Bolton took control of Winterfell from the Iron born and rules as self-proclaimed Warden of the North."
"He cannot do that! The Heiress to House Winterfell still lives. It is Lady Sansa's birth right," a fat, bald man protests.
"Yes, Lord Varys, this is true. However, this is not news to me. I gave Winterfell to the Boltons myself, as a reward for their exceptional work at the Twins," Joffrey sneers.
Sansa clenches her hands into fists, furious. The betrayal her mother and brother suffered was an affront to the Gods not something to be applauded!
"What of the last remaining male Starks? Should they not inherit before their sister?" Master Pycelle- the royal maester- questions.
"Indeed, but my spies have informed me that Bran and Rickon Stark are both dead. The Iron born burned them when they initially took over Winterfell," Lord Varys rebuts.
Sansa gasps. How has she had no knowledge of this? Her heart thumps in her chest heavily, and the blood rushing in her ears masks all other sounds.
'Brave Bran, Little Rickon…No that cannot be. Theon would never hurt them. He grew up with them!' Sansa wails inside.
Theon Greyjoy was a prisoner to her father after the Iron born Rebellion many years ago. In order to ensure another would not occur, Lord Balon Greyjoy-ruler of the Iron Islands- gave his last living son to the North as a bargaining piece. Sansa had always been wary of the caustic older boy, but she had also felt sympathy for him because of the situation. If Lord Varys' spies tell it true, then Theon will pay for this betrayal.
The crowd has grown silent amidst the serious conversation, and Sansa looks up to see Cersei's gaze focused on her intently. She swallows and tunes back into the argument the Small Council is waging.
"There is no actual proof to these rumors, Lord Varys. The boys may yet live," an older, pepper-haired man interjects.
Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish is an old paramour of Catelyn Tully's, and though he insists that she should, Sansa does not trust him, for many reasons, the most prominent of which is that she has heard from others, that the man is the reason her father is dead.
But regardless his words give her hope. If there are no bodies then it could have been a lie, spun by Theon to protect the boys. This sounds more like the boy she grew to know, and Sansa's heartache eases ever so slightly.
"It does not matter which of the Starks still lives! I have commanded Winterfell to Lord Bolton, end of discussion!" Joffrey's temper makes its appearance.
"Enough banal conversation," he turns to the first man who spoke from the crowd, "What news do you bring me aside from this?"
The man shuffles anxiously, "Nothing, Your Grace. There has been no word from Essos on the progression of the so-called Targaryen Dragon Queen, and Stannis has made himself scarce, hiding in his castle upon Dragonstone, after suffering defeat from the Lannister armies."
This brings a smile to Joffrey's face once more, and the crowd seems to relax.
"Splendid news, my lord. You may step back now," he flicks his hand out lazily.
The gentleman immediately does so, and Joffrey's gaze sweeps the crowd. She knows what's coming, so when his eyes find her, Sansa stiffens her spine, and awaits the order she knows is coming.
"Ah! My lady, step forward!" he crows, "What are your thoughts on the matters we have thus far discussed?"
Sansa complies, and her throat is as dry as Dorne when she replies, "'tis good news, milord."
His brow puckers, and Sansa knows before the day is done he will want something more.
"What say you to giving up Winterfell to the man responsible for murdering your mother and brother?" he's probing now.
Sansa's eyes flicker with anger, but she schools her face to show her indifference to Joffrey's questions. Letting him know how angry she is will only satisfy him.
"It is an honor, Your Grace. The Boltons are an old and powerful House."
"Yes, indeed," Joffrey nods, eyes sparkling with malice, "and his part in slaughtering your family could only have gone better if he had done what his ancestors often did as punishment for their prisoners in war: flaying."
Sansa's clenches her eyes shut when stomach rolls at the image of her mother's sweet-scented, soft skin being rolled back, displaying the mess of red muscle and bone underneath, or her brother's screams as they pulled the scalp off his skull with a dull blade.
"Lady Sansa?" Joffrey calls at the same moment the Throne Room doors burst open.
In a flurry of action, the guards rush the entrance to stop whoever has foolishly chosen to break into a private session, and the crowd begins pushing each other to get out of the way. Fortunately for Sansa, this draws away all prying eyes, because she can no longer control her reaction to Joffrey's spite.
Her eyes snap open, and she brings her gaze up to find Joffrey's malevolent one still fixed on her, unconcerned with the commotion caused by the intruder. When he sees she is looking back, his smirk widens but then flickers before falling. The heat on the back of her neck and underneath her eyes tells Sansa what he sees. Her eyes are no doubt black pits, her pupils blown wide to cover the iris and the whites, and when she slowly wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, she can feel her fangs scraping her skin as they descend. She smirks back at the smug prick on the throne, and he sputters for a moment, baffled.
But then, he shrieks like a banshee. Everyone freezes and turns to him, confused.
"Demon!" he points his finger at Sansa.
When they all turn their gaze to her, Sansa feigns confusion, shrugging her shoulders at everyone around her. Her fangs have hidden once more and the flush is gone from her skin so she knows her eyes are their normal brilliant blue. The Small Council are vehemently shushing the King after determining that he must be seeing things, but Joffrey will have none of it.
"She's some kind of beast! Sh-she had pointy teeth and, and black eyes!" He is standing now, and still pointing his finger accusingly at her, "What are you, you freak!? Tell the court! Your king commands you!"
At this moment in his hysterics, Cersei steps in, grabs the offending hand tightly and drags it down to his side.
"That is enough! Have you gone completely mad?" She's attempting to whisper but the best she manages is a normal decibel in her embarrassment.
The crowd is talking amongst themselves loudly and giving her looks, but they seem to decide better that Joffrey was mad instead of her being some monster that came and went in a split second.
'Well, who wouldn't?' Sansa ponders, amused.
The boy-King is led away at the hand of his mother, who is still reprimanding him, and the Small Council dismisses the crowd, following behind the former two. The guards still have ahold of the young man who had burst in unannounced, and from what Sansa can see, it's just the Lord Hand's personal squire. The poor boy, should have known better than to just barge in to the King's Throne Room without prior acquiescence, no matter whose word he brings. For some reason, the Lord Hand was not present at these proceedings, however he will hear of his grandson's… frailty of mind soon enough.
Sansa smiles to herself, humming lightly as she exits the great hall, and wanders her way into the nearby vast gardens. She has an affinity with nature these days, ever since her 'change' after she received her first maiden's blood last year.
There are some whispers from those around her, but all in all they do not seem to last very long, and eventually everyone has gone about their own matters. She stops next to a thorny rose bush and leans down to press her nose into one that is in full bloom. She doesn't register the smell, too focused on her surroundings. The walk through the gardens is a pretense; she knows she's being followed. Unlike last night, Sansa is well aware of whom this person is, and he is thoroughly unwanted.
"Beautiful, aren't they, Lady Sansa?" Petyr Baelish muses, coming to stand beside her.
"What do you want, Lord Baelish," she's in no mood to mask her disdain for him at the moment.
He throws his shoulders back and loses the supposedly charming grin on his lips. He leans in close, his mustache tickling her ear unpleasantly.
"I saw you, my lady. You aren't being very careful, now are you?"
Sansa takes stock of the gardens, making sure there aren't any prying eyes or ears around.
"Don't worry, we're alone."
Sansa's neck heats up, and she grins maniacally before spinning around swiftly.
"Good," She flashes her fangs with a wide grin, "killing someone is always easier without the annoying shrieking."
Lord Baelish makes to step back from her in alarm, but Sansa's hand flies out and grips his neck tightly. His hands come up and try to pry her tiny hand from his throat, but she's a hell of a lot stronger than she looks, so she squeezes just enough to force a gasping gurgle from his open mouth. He keeps one hand on hers, trying to make her let go, and reaches his other one out to strangle her instead. She laughs and grabs it before twisting his wrist until it she hears an obscene 'crunch.' Lord Baelish tries to scream in pain, but the pressure Sansa is putting on his windpipe reduces it to a wheezy little whine.
When the veins underneath his eyes begin to bulge, Sansa forces him onto his knees before her.
"It's not very smart to give away knowledge, like you had about me, to the person it's pertaining to. Why did you do it? You had to know that it would be very foolish of you to approach me."
Lord Baelish takes short, gasping breaths when she pulls back on the pressure so that she's merely holding him now. She waits patiently for a minute as he gets his voice back.
"I wanted to show you that you can trust me, Lady Sansa. I am on your side!"
Sansa has to laugh at that.
"Trust you? Honestly, only a fool and a whore could ever trust you, Baelish. I don't know what you want from me, but you have been pandering after me for three years, and not once has it ever seemed sincere. In fact, I am sure you know that I have heard the rumors that it was YOU who orchestrated this entire war, AND betrayed my father. And now you know my secret, maybe not the specifics, but enough to hinder my plans. So please enlighten me, Lord Baelish, as to why your miserable life is worth saving."
His eyes widen, and she can see that he's realizing the magnitude of his mistake in revealing himself to her.
"Wait! Wait, I swear I won't tell anyone, Lady Sansa! I could have told the King that I saw you change too, but I didn't did I? That has to count for something?! Those are nothing but vicious lies! I loved your mother I would never do anything to bring her harm! Please, my lady, let me help you!"
"Hmm. That is a valid point. Why didn't you say something?" Sansa demands after a moment of thought.
Lord Baelish pauses for a moment, and Sansa's patience is wearing thin.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, you can't tell me, can you?" Sansa tilts her head, and begins to crush his windpipe once more.
He gargles out a muffled 'wait!' and she backs off momentarily, giving him one last chance.
"I-I…" he stutters, "I wanted to gain your trust and I also knew what would happen to you if he could convince anyone what you were. You would have been killed, and I couldn't have that. I owe it to your mother to protect you, and that's what I'm gonn-"
The increased pressure on his throat cuts him off, "How dare you! You still deny everything I have said thus far? Everything word that slips from your mouth is a filthy lie, Littlefinger."
With that Sansa releases his throat abruptly before gripping one head on the back of his head and the other on his chin, and grasps both firmly before wrenching her hands to the side sharply. The resounding 'crack' lets her know that his neck is well and fully broken. Pleased, Sansa drops the lifeless body to the ground and focuses her hearing to be certain that there is no one in the vicinity. She can hear the whooshing of the small river further down in the gardens, and the squawking of some sort of bird in the tree a few feet away, but the closest human heartbeat that she can clearly hear is approximately seventy to eighty yards away, and she can tell it's coming from on top of a heavier, thicker beat-a horse, so it's likely passing by.
In this situation, Sansa would normally consume the body to hide the evidence. But the thought of eating Petyr Baelish makes her want to throw up. He's the last person she wants to have inside of her. So instead, she grips his ankle and hoists him up over her shoulder from behind so that his leg is in front of her and his head hanging over her back. Not the most comfortable position, but it will do.
She walks to the edge of the gardens, just far enough to be able to see the stables on one side and the keep on the other, but not to be seen herself. Sansa is still attempting to figure out what to do with the body when she sees it: the gate leading down to the crypt of the Dragons. It is where they keep the skulls of the pet dragons from the Targaryen reign. It also happens to be where the current leaders keep their own pets: lions.
"Perfect," Sansa cheers under her breath.
The Gardens extend cover up to around fifteen feet away from the entrance to the crypt, but it's still going to be difficult not to be seen. That would be quite a sight: a hundred pound young woman carrying a man at least half that over her shoulder effortlessly.
Guess I'll have to move quickly then won't I? Sansa jokes to herself.
She has travelled to the bushes nearest the crypt door and when she has a clear shot, Sansa lets the anticipation she feels, heat the nape of her neck once more, and she purses her lips in concentration as she changes.
When she feels the blood thrumming in her chest, and feels her fangs biting into her bottom lip, she knows she's ready. She adjusts Littlefinger's body over her shoulder, and sprints to the crypt door with her preternatural speed, whirring past an unattended mare in the process, which whinnies and rears up at the unseen, but sensed danger. Sansa pays her no mind, and is through the unlocked door within a second.
Once inside, she drops her decomposing luggage to the ground unceremoniously. She needs to find the guards, because if the door is unlocked that means there's someone working with the lions. She walks down the short hallway and peers around the corner into the den filled with cages of prowling lions. The floor plan is quite open and spacious, with nowhere to hide, so Sansa sees right away that it's empty. The guard must have simply forgotten to lock up.
"Lucky me," Sansa hums, skipping back over to the body blocking the door.
This time she merely drags him by the collar of his doublet down the hall and around the corner. The lions take notice immediately and begin growling and stalking their cages agitatedly. There are five females and three males all in separate enclosures.
Sansa looks from one cage to the next on repeat, "Eenie, meanie, minie, moe…" she sings.
Her eyes land on the youngest male at the far end of the den. He looks thinner than the rest, and very hungry. His piercing gold eyes examine her as she walks up and when she sticks Petyr's head through the bars of the cage, the young lion pounces on it with paws and teeth.
"Perfect."
Sansa lifts the body and turns it so that it will squeeze through the bars- it does which is concerning since the lion is not much bigger than Baelish is. Though Sansa imagines it's not simply kept here because of the bars, but rather because it knows it gets a steady supply of meals.
When he sees what she's doing the lion helps her by dragging the body all the way into the cage, wrapping itself around its new snack. In the few short minutes that she has been standing here, the face of Littlefinger has already been peeled off and slithered down the feline's throat, his eyes shortly to follow if the way the young lion is digging into the eye sockets with his claws is any hint.
Sansa turns and walks away, confident, that when she wakes on the morrow, the day will be just as any other, and none will have news that their Master of Coin is being digested as they speak. Watching the lion feed has sparked her own appetite though. So when she slinks out from the crypt, Sansa heads towards the stables next door. Surely there's a stable boy or two to be found.
"Can I help you, Miss?" comes the voice of a teenage boy with dark hair and a shy smile.
He is carrying a pitchfork, resting lightly in his hand, so he was likely just pitching hay for the horses. Sansa turns to face him where he came upon her from an empty stall. She steps forward, forcing him to step back into it. She brings a hand up to rest on the hand he holds the pitchfork with, and gently loosens his grip until he drops the weapon. Then she slides her hand up the length of his arm, massaging his bicep when she reaches it. She flutters her eyelashes, and he blushes brightly all the way down his neck and under the collar of his loose shirt.
"Why yes, darling. Yes, you can," she smiles.
He lets her put her lips on his neck and moans when she uses her tongue to flick out a taste. But by the time he realizes her intentions aren't what he thought, her teeth are in his throat, her body pressing his against the wall, and his blood is flowing ever so sweetly into her eager mouth.