She stood to the side of the Stranger, lurking in the shadows cast by the statue's granite bulk, far from the whispers of the other worshippers.

However fearsome the Stranger was expressed, being the effigy of death and the unknown, Sansa found herself entranced by the idol.

It was made of unrefined oak, a crude medium, yet the craftsmanship of the figure was enchanting. Every sept portrayed the Seven differently; some townships had beautiful engravings to praise the divine powers of the gods, whereas some, mostly in the North, had simple, primitive logs to indicate the human qualities of the Seven.

The Red Keep's Stranger was elaborately decorated, there were rubies and opals inlaid with gold painted steel, it was obvious that whomever had made it had favored the mysterious shadow archetype of the God. It was a stone carving meant to look like a skeletal figure clothed in a hooded robe, gold streaked through it to add definition and depth. Only the eyes, reflective red jewels, were visible under the hood of its cloak. Everything else about the statue's body was hidden, its face shrouded by a gloomy darkness and its sleeves hollow. The idol resonated darkness, depth, and dread, it was no wonder the Stranger was often interpreted as villainous and thus forgotten. In the Book of the Stranger, a section of The Seven Sided Star dedicated to the seventh face of God, the Stranger was often depicted as; a skeleton with red, demonic eyes veiled by shadow, wearing a loose, hooded garment, usually with arms outstretched and cadaverous hands coming out of dark, drooping sleeves, threateningly.

Sansa remembered distinctly as a young girl, seeing a painting of the Stranger holding the limp, grey carcass of an infant, cradling the child's broken neck and head in its arms. Standing beside the statue now, she felt the same rawness creep over her skin. Anxiety began to obscure her judgement.

She sympathized with the Stranger; they were both outsiders, misunderstood creatures surrounded by false faces, flatterers and fools. Sansa even pitied the Stranger, it was the psychical manifestation of human error and fear, and was loathed for all of the harsh realities that it symbolized. The Stranger had been denied gender and worshippers, only those that prayed for death came to it, and the Silent Sisters that were sworn to its service, were equally feared and dreaded. In most hymns the Stranger was ignored, its presence boded doom. Sansa felt like weeping, not out of her own sadness, but out of sympathy for the ignored, godly entity before her.

The door to the sept swung open, its hinges screaming, Sansa did not look up but she signed inwardly. The familiar creak and rustling of a mail shirt, and resounding stomp of a staggered, self assured walk confirmed her suspicions, Joffrey had sent one of his men to fetch her. She stole a glance at the man and felt herself become smaller. He was Joffrey's new favorite, although it would seem as if he were the Queen Regent's favorite, as rumors of their sexual relations had been circulating.

Ser Osney Kettleblack strode towards her, his hooked nose high as he glanced disdainfully down at the weeping woman at the feet of the Mother, he would have been attractive if not for the long, pink scars on his face. She had heard that a prostitute had cut him, though she could not verify the truth to that rumor. Sansa had made a point to inquire about this man and his brothers, as they had often made passes at her, and as Petyr had once told her, knowledge is power.

She had asked Sandor about them, as discreetly as possible. And Sandor had told her, with obvious distaste, how the brothers were knighted after the Battle of the Blackwater, despite not actually being involved in the fight. He had told her about how the Queen had wept with joy after Osney and his brother Osfryd had brought Tommen back from Rosby, despite Tyrion Lannister's wishes to keep the royal family separated. And she already knew about the rumors that the Kettleblack brothers had slept with Margeary Tyrell and two of her three cousins. The last rumor had not bothered Sansa, she had heard plenty of gossip about the Tyrell girl and had dismissed all of it.

She had yet to meet her, but she knew that Lady Margeary was still in the Red Keep despite having lost Joffrey's affections. Sansa knew for a fact that Margeary Tyrell's father, Mace Tyrell had been beseeching Cersei to have his daughter marry her second son. It wasn't the same as marrying the first born, but the Tyrells would gain more power by being directly involved with the ruling family. Sansa had even heard that Margeary's grandmother, Olenna Redwyne, had requested Sansa marry her grandson, Margeary's eldest brother, Willas Tyrell. Of course, Joffrey, being the child king he was, had shot down that proposal, refusing to part with his favorite play thing. The most shocking speculation Sansa had heard, was that Cersei, the noble and beautiful Queen Regent, was green with envy for the Tyrell girl, and was loathe to even have her in the Keep. No matter her own personal feelings toward the woman, Sansa would never have imagined Cersei to be so insecure. Though it made Sansa happy that that vindictive woman was so uncomfortable.

Sansa was in a trance, her fingers still on the Stranger's cloaked statue when Osney finally spotted her and approached, with a gait that implied vanity. He evidently thought very highly of himself.

Bowing absurdly low in front of Sansa, Osney breezily told her, "The king has the royal palanquin ready for your departure, my Lady. His Grace has commanded I gather you and your belongings and meet him on the steps of Maegor's Holdfast, so that His Majesty can bid you farewell."

Osney's calm irritated Sansa, he had nothing to worry about, he just had his orders, whereas she had to keep on her guard always. She knew that Joffrey had planned meeting in front of the Holdfast because it was where she and the other highborn ladies had hid during the Battle of the Blackwater. He was being vindictive, trying to in spawn fear in her heart. And it was working, she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as Cersei Lannister's foreboding words, 'tears are not a woman's only weapon', echoed through her mind, their relevance duly noted.

Finding a way out of her trance Sansa replied, never forgetting her manners, "Yes, good ser knight, thank you,".


The sun was harsh, its rays stung the eyes and soaked into the red stone bricks of the keep. Joffrey felt flushed, his eyes smarted from the sun's glare, and his neck ached from the weight of the crown. Widow's Wail hung loosely from his hip and he absently toyed with the hilt, sweat rolled down his temple and he wiped it away hastily. Joffrey's patience was diminishing with every passing minute. This is ridiculous, the king should not be kept waiting. Where is that Stark bitch? He brooded pensively. To calm himself, Joffrey shut he eyes to the sun, and thought back to how titillating it had been as his crossbow bolts had sliced through Ros's flesh like Valyrian steel through butter. He smiled and sighed reliving how her eyes had bulged out of her head, how the blood streaming down her naked body had been hot and feverish. He could still hear her screams, loud and piercing, then rattling as she let out her last death gasp. But he heard something else. Joffrey could hear soft footsteps, most likely small feet in slippers, and slightly closer the clinking of metal, probably mailed shoes.

The sun was harsh, its rays stung the eyes and soaked into the red stone bricks of the keep. Joffrey felt flushed, his eyes smarted from the sun's glare, and his neck ached from the weight of the crown. Widow's Wail hung loosely from his hip and he absently toyed with the hilt, sweat rolled down his temple and he wiped it away hastily. Joffrey's patience was diminishing with every passing minute. This is ridiculous, the king should not be kept waiting. Where is that Stark bitch? He brooded pensively. To calm himself, Joffrey shut he eyes to the sun, and thought back to how titillating it had been as his crossbow bolts had sliced through Ros's flesh like Valyrian steel through butter. He smiled and sighed reliving how her eyes had bulged out of her head, how the blood streaming down her naked body had been hot and feverish. He could still hear her screams, loud and piercing, then rattling as she let out her last death gasp. But he heard something else. Joffrey could hear soft footsteps, most likely small feet in slippers, and slightly closer the clinking of metal, probably mailed shoes.

His lady love had come back to him.

He kept his eyes closed, but clasped his hands, and held his head higher. He was annoyed by excited he was to see Sansa again, and reasoned that he was just anticipating acting out a punishment. Some nagging voice in his mind, not unlike his mother's, scolded him, and recited a mantra, "You need her. She doesn't need you". It drove him mad, he did not need this now, he could not go back on his threats, he could not appear weak in anyones eyes.

The footfalls got closer and louder until they stopped, off to his right. Someone cleared their throat, probably Osney, Osney was impudent enough to do something like that to his king. Joffrey opened his eyes, and squinting into the sun, regarded them aloofly. Standing still for a moment, Joffrey decided to move things along.

With surprising agility and speed, Joffrey bounded to the side of the palanquin nearest him. Pulling back the silky, light fabric that stretched across the opening to the carriage.

Without looking at Sansa, Joffrey bent slightly at the waist, bowing to his hostage with the grace of a king. "My Lady, your carriage awaits". He peeked through his bangs, his crown sitting heavily on his brow; Sansa was wearing the same rose gown as she had on his 13th name day. He remembered because she had looked so lovely in it as he threatened to kill Ser Dontos, the sunlight reflecting off of her deep blue Tully eyes. Joffrey had been surprised when she spoke out to spare that fool, but she had look so entrancing that he had felt obliged to comply. Even after as he played with the prostitutes his uncle got him, he could only think of Sansa. When he would touch himself later, he fantasied that he was hitting her back and ass with his belt, and pretended that Daisy's screams from that night were Sansa's, and that she was screaming his name. It was not kingly, he knew, but he lost himself whenever he thought of her.

He liked that dress, it showed off everything very well, and she was still filling it out. Sansa had her hair down today, in the style that the Tyrell girls wore; the hair on either temple twisted to the back of the head and curled together, letting her auburn hair fall down her back in lazy waves. She looked stunning, her neck exposed and elongated by the deep neckline of her dress. She refused to meet his eye so he straightened up, angrily.

Dusting off imaginary grime from his doublet, Joffrey took slow steady steps toward Sansa and Osney. Sansa stood very tall, her back arched, an her chin held high. She had her arm looped with Ser Osney's, but by how white her knuckles were, Joffrey could tell that she was frightened, though her eyes betrayed nothing.

He stopped in front of them, held out his crooked elbow, and let a lazy grin play across his face, he was trying to ease the tension though from the looks of it Sansa did not trust his smile. She did withdraw her hand from Ser Osney's arm, and place it in the nook of his however. Her touch light and tentative, oddly enough it made Joffrey want her to be comfortable in his arms, however absurd that seemed. A king does not dwell on the comforts of others, only his pleasure mattered.

But as he clasped his other hand over her delicate pale fingers he felt her stiffen beneath his touch, some odd mixture of apprehension and loathing.

In an attempt to salvage the mood, he found himself saying,"Come my dear, no need to be afraid,". Then wondering, Why in seven hells did I say that?! Joffrey hardly had enough time to register what he had just done before Sansa opened her mouth, "You say such lovely words, Your Grace, thank you," with her cold familiarity. Joffrey could feel his patience slipping, here he was trying to show this cold, Stark bitch some genuine affection and she was treating him like a common urchin, so like that cunt to disregard his feelings like that. Joffrey smiled through it all, though he could sense his usually alluring smile was becoming twisted and ruined as his anger boiled over, he had the acute sense of a slipping self control, he would lose himself in his fury soon.

Ignoring the red that threatened to cloud his vision, Joffrey guided Sansa into the palanquin. She sat down heavily on the padded cushions, he stared at her with his hand on the curtain, she looked dignified if not frightened; the color drained fro her face, and her knuckles were white as she clenched her hands together. Joffrey had a fleeting moment of guilt, though he could not put into words what he was feeling. He felt a strong longing for the Stark girl, a need to have her by his side always, forever within reach. At the same time though he lusted for her convulsions and hot blood, Joffrey dreamed of both slicing her up and holding her close. It was an odd combination, quite contradictory and alarming, and he did not know how long he could last with her away from him.

He thought it would only be a month.


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