Sansa awoke with a start, the sunlight streaming through her window was too hot for her to sleep comfortably so she sat up clutched the blankets to her chest, and stared fearfully at her closed door. It was first light, judging by the sunrise outside, and yet no one had come to fetch her. She had expected a rude awakening, but she would not put it past Joffery to come later than expected, just to leave her anxious and paranoid. And even if he did not send anyone to get her, he would expect her to go to him. His soul was dark like that.
She counted the seconds, minutes ticked by in fearful agony but there were still no footsteps in the corridor or knocks at her door. Reading the situation as safe, for now, Sansa climbed out of her featherbed, and padded quickly to her dresser where she yanked a gown from its hanger and threw it on. All while keeping one eye open and one ear cocked; she was loathe to be caught off guard around these people.
The entire Red Keep was overrun with rats; people paraded as ladies and gentlemen but were wicked schemers. Flatterers and fools took up residence in this castle, weaving their webs of lies incessantly. In all the seven hells there was not a place as full of deceit and corruption as the capitol in the south.
Sansa had tried her best to keep out of all political affairs but had failed miserably, finding herself adept at playing their game. Besides, if all they did was paint smiles on their faces then she too could make a mask and wear it, and she did, she was the best at it. But she was still a child, and wanted fiercely to believe that there were heroes and honest people in the world. Joffery and his company of depraved individuals had made her lose all faith in humanity, he was only a boy, her own age, and yet he had sparked wars with his cruelty and sadistic nature. He had certainly hurt her and her family beyond repair; he had personally called for her father's head, ignoring her pleas and bargaining, even the council of his mother, something Sansa would never forget or forgive.
But now she all but belonged to Joffery, another one of his possessions, only able to ever bend to his will. It was disgusting. Sansa had tried so hard to become a lady in her mother's image. Looking into her mirror she could see a familiar coldness in her eyes, the same frozen glare that her father, Ned Stark, was known for. Maybe she had been trying to be the wrong person, when she should have been imitating her father's backbone she was too busy trying to remember all of the mannerisms that her lady mother had drilled into her head. And so, with a renewed resolve she settled on the chair facing the mirror and decided to sit there and wait for Joffery to come to her, she refused to go to him like another one of his obedient dogs. She was excited with her new found backbone, but was terribly afraid of how his highness would react to her latest insolence.
It did not take long for Joffery to notice her absence and seek her out, so Sansa would only have a few fleeting moments of true serenity.
Pacing in front of his Iron Throne, Joffery fumed. He walked up and down the steps leading to his birthright, thinking reasons why Sansa had not yet come to him.
"Where is she?!" He bellowed, with as much hostility an impatient teenage boy could muster. Joffery was not used to waiting, and despised it. He was king for gods' sake! And he was not going to be ignored, unless the person had a death wish. All of his composure and self pride from the other night had vanished, he wanted, even needed, to see her.
That only made the boy king angrier, he stamped his foot and threw his crown down, sending it flying down the few steps, the clangor it caused only maddening him further.
Joffery held the most power in all of Westeros, and knew full well just how important he was. He lived for it, the boy was the personification of pride. Which might have been due to his lack of a childhood.
Joffery had never known love, or nurturing, as a child. More often than naught, he had been smothered by his mother and abandoned by his absentee father. Once or twice he had even caught his father in the act, with another woman, sometimes with a servant, or a whore. His uncle Jaime, was the only father figure he knew, but Joffery was put off by the closeness shared between his mother and her brother. It was alien to him that siblings should love each other, he rarely even saw Myrcella or Tommen. For all he knew they hated him, but as much as he told himself that it didn't matter, he was hurt, for he lacked real connections with people, he lacked 'people skills'. That was why he was so intent on having Sansa by his side always; not only was she the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to date, but if he could get her to respect, if not love him, then he could get anyone on his side. And in the game of thrones, you need as many allies as you can get.
But as of right now, all Joffery wanted was obedience. He only thought her asleep, that maybe she had forgotten their conversation last night.
Maybe she isn't afraid of me anymore! Can that happen? Joffery pondered, chewing his bottom lip, as was his nervous tic. And he was quite anxious, his nerves becoming more and more frayed with every passing minute. Sansa had been the only person ever truly afraid of him. And he was loathe to let her become brave, not when he had anything to do with it.
"Hound!" Joffery spat, his voice cracking slightly out of adolescence desperation, and he did, in that moment, sound his age.
"Hound, where are you!" Joffery spat again, his temper rising.
"I'm here your Majesty, don't burst a vein sire." Came a familiar husky voice accompanied by a mirthless laugh. Joffery knew that voice my heart, better than he knew his own Mother's.
Sandor Clegane was the only man that Joffery permitted to speak to him with such utter disrespect, and although Sandor often forgot himself and treated Joffery like a child, which he was, Joffery kept him nearby, always.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Joffery strode over to where Sandor was standing below the steps, and stopped a few above The Hound, so that the two of them were at eye level.
"Hound, must I tell you to address your king by his title," Joffery began, the splitting migraine inside his head increasing ten fold. "That's besides the point, I know full well that no one can beat any sense into that horrendous head of yours. But I have need of your special brand of...intimidation,"
"You want me to show my face to that wolf girl of yours? Do you hope it will drive her into your arms, boy?" Sandor retorted.
"Watch yourself, Dog! I am no boy, I am your king! And you will do as I command, and I command you to fetch my bride-to-be, and yes, the more frightened she is, the better job you have done,"
Joffery huffed at the hulking form of his bodyguard, his intentions tangible in the stuffy summer air. He wanted Sansa to be bruised when she came to him. He wanted her punished for neglecting her duties, but was too cowardly to deliver the blows himself.
Sandor understood exactly what the small king wanted; he wanted Sansa to suffer, to cry and whimper. He wanted her punished for neglecting her duties, for not paying him enough attention.
"As you wish Your Grace," Sandor recited, kneeling before the smug boy as was customary, his scowl deepening behind the curtain of his long black hair.
And with that, Sandor stood and left, unhappy to have this job laid on his shoulders, but unwilling to voice his grievances.
He walked down the corridors, sweating profusely, and swearing under his breath.
Sandor had hoped that someone else would have been in charge of fetching the little bird, but it was for the better. He knew the other cravens in the Kingsguard would have hurt Sansa more. He was well aware that a few, Osney and Oswald Kettleblack, for instance, took pleasure in hitting women. He had heard them brag about how badly they had beaten whores when they were well into their cups. If he remembered them correctly, they had said that the women were "asking for it". They have a mother, and seven hells maybe even daughters, why would they say such horrible things? Those fools, Sandor speculated hotly.
He respected women, even if he was often treated fearfully by the opposite gender. Sandor's firm belief, though somewhat unexpected, was that men who hurt women were cowards, and that the other sex was not weaker, no matter how strongly that was felt in this country. He could not admit this to anyone, he would be deemed craven and insipid, maybe even attacked by radicals, but he always went out of his way to protect the oppressed females he saw. He helped them secretly, and would be resentful that not more was or could be done.
So it's pointless to say that he was extremely vexed that he was told so often to hit the girl. And he felt ridiculous complaining about it to himself, he could only imagine how the little bird felt.
All too quickly Sandor's feet had carried him to her room, and he felt timid now, standing in front of the massive mahogany door, that dwarfed even him. He was not prepared for what he had to do on the other side of it, and with a subdued, sheepish sigh he tentatively pushed at the door, cringing at the loud squeak coming from its hinges. He didn't expect her to be up already, but there she was; squatting on the stool in front of her mirror, solemnly combing her fingers through her hair, not even turning her head to look at him as she said.
"I've been expecting you. You do remember you said you would help me, correct? Sandor?"
And he bowed his had to her, hiding his smile, afraid of ruining the moment; his little bird had found her courage, she would chirp needlessly no longer.
"Aye, Little Bird, I remember,"
"Good. Now close the door, please, Sandor, I have a plan," She declared. Her voice got stronger with each word, and as she turned her gaze upon him, Sandor could see her studying him, her stare toughening, and her chin lifting in the air. She looked regal, and for the first time since she had come to this place, she looked the part of the wolf. You could see that she had Stark blood running through her veins, her usually gentle, imploring blue eyes transformed into unfeeling, icy orbs.
She was a true queen now, a Northern Queen, and his own. And she was taking charge of her own destiny.
Her skin had solidified into an impregnable wall of armor, Sandor only hoped it was enough.
Thank you for reading my story and another reminder that all 9 chapters (soon to be 10) are on AO3 and I will try to post them all here
please comment I really appreciate the feedback, both positive and negative and have a good day! :)
