Outwardly, he waits for her to answer without concern. Inwardly, he is burning. Every second she refuses to answer cuts him deeper and deeper. This was supposed to be their moment. The moment he showed her he cared by even asking her at all instead of expecting her to dutifully proceed. Yet, here she is, silent as a lamb. Despite his mortification, he cannot overlook her appearance. She is so beautiful. Her hair is adorned with a makeshift hairband of braids, leaving her face uncovered, the rest of her hair flowing down her back. Her skin is glowing, her lips are full, and her eyes are piercing. But her dress, her dress was made to skim the lines of propriety; in technicality it was as modest as custom and society required but in reality, it displayed the work of art that was her body. It was just tight enough to give an authentic outline of her round, substantial breasts and cut just enough to show the amazing flare of her hips. Amazing, beautiful, incredibly frustrating girl. All he can think, as he takes her in, is: I have to make her mine. Officially and irrevocably. Sansa, choose me. Please choose me. No one good ever does. Please be the one. I choose you. Please choose me. He begs her repeatedly. Almost like a prayer. The gods cannot reprove me for excessively reverence, they were the ones who chose to form her a goddess. He can bear the wait no longer.
"Sansa? What is your answer?" He fees the urge to take her hand but he tarries.
"My lord, I want to wait until my father has returned. I don't want to marry without my family's consent." What she really means is: I do not want to be disowned for marrying you.
"Your father has fled Sansa, he refuses to even be my Hand. Surely, he will not give me his consent." He feels his heart beating fast, he is about to hear a no. About to be rejected. He can feel it. He always can. You are not good enough, is what no really means. He turns away and braces himself for her refusal.
"Then I cannot answer. I cannot wed without my father present, without my family. I am so sorry, My Lord." She turns away, awaiting his wrath.
A yell, a sound of something breaking, or, at least, a cuss. Instead there is silence. A cold, spine-chilling silence. After a minute, she hears him get up. She finally sums up the courage to look up at him but when she does he is already walking away.
She is completely stunned, at first.
Is he coming back? Shall I wait here? Shall I see myself to my room? I will look a fool if I sit here all day.
Thankfully, she does not have to wait long.
A guard informs her that he is to escort her back to her room, or wherever she wishes to go.
He is not coming back.
She stands and walks towards her chambers, summoning all the dignity she witnessed of her mother.
Head up, shoulders straight, no despondent eyes. Be strong. Be strong.
She chants to herself throughout the walk, it seems as though it will never end. But the gods are merciful and she finally reaches her room. She is not sure what Catelyn Stark does once she reaches her room on her bad days, but Sansa is not perfect like her mother, so she cries. And cries. And cries some more. The sun sets and she is still under her covers, the tears have stopped flowing but her heart is still aching.
She is completely alone, she realizes. No mother, no father, no brothers, she would even take her sister.
Now, no Joffrey.
It seems impossible but the tears flow once more. Come back, she wants to yell.
Please.
Instead, she cries once more. The sun rises and she is still in her bed, her heart weary of aching.
He stands after he gathers himself adequately. It would not do for guards to see him distraught. He contemplates taking a look at her for she had been silent as well. But he is not courageous enough.
I cannot look upon her, knowing she does not want to be mine. That she does not want me. I must walk away. Before she breaks me. Goodbye Sansa.
The last thought is the most painful of all. Goodbye. If he lets her go, someone will marry her. Most definitely, someone will. She is a sweet girl and will surely love her husband. A husband who would not be him.
Ah. Pain. Right in my heart.
He wants to turn it off. The emotions. They threaten to swallow him and tear him apart. He walks briskly to his room, commanding that no one is to be allowed inside. Once alone, his thoughts haunt him once more.
No one good ever chooses me. I am not good. I am evil. Mother only loves me because she is evil as well. Father was right. He finds himself, once again, cursing the day the gods decided to give him Robert Baratheon for a father. Evil. Evil. Evil. I am evil. Sansa will never love me. And the darkness swallows him whole. The sun sets and rises, yet the king remains motionless. Paralyzed by his grief.
Meanwhile, the spies have had adequate time to report of the squabble to their employers and various plans have been set into motion. Cersei, Varys and Littlefinger: names that are to be feared indeed. Even the king has reason to be fearful. The king might control the kingdom but who controls the king?
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