Chapter 8
Jaime had been chatting with Tyrion beside him when a loud bang echoed across the hall. Along with every other lord, lady, and servant at the feast, Jaime turned his head towards the sound. Jaime's golden fork fell from his hand, landing with a sharp clatter on the stone floor. Standing under the looming oak doors was the most stunning girl he had ever seen. She wore a blood-red gown that matched her cheeks, which were growing darker by the second. As she stood there, Jaime allowed his eyes to roam over her slight body, over her exposed shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Glancing to his left, Jaime saw Cersei shoot a glare in his direction before turning her eyes towards the girl.
"That is Sansa Stark, Eddard's daughter," Tyrion whispered in his ear before he too returned his gaze to the girl.
"I… I had no idea that she looked…that she was… exactly how old is she?" Jaimie questioned, never taking his eyes off the Stark girl. Jaime assumed that he was sent to protect a child, not a beautiful young woman.
"Ten-and-six, my dear brother. A woman grown, although that does her little good now…" Tyrion said sadly. Before Jaime could respond, the music restarted and Sansa had shyly taken a seat beside Margaery.
With every course brought out, Jaimie could sense Cersei growing angrier. Jaime reached under the table, as he had when they were teenagers, to squeeze his sister's thigh in comfort. Instead of the usual reciprocation, Cersei blatantly ignored his touch and resumed her conversation with their father beside her. Jaimie sighed, Cersei had always been a jealous woman. She hated the thought of him even looking at others, let alone holding feasts and balls in search of a replacement.
By the 9th hour the dancing had begun, transforming the hall into a swirl of luxury and lust. Lords from the capital and nearby keeps paraded their daughters and granddaughters in front of him, hoping that they would catch his eye even before the real competition began. Under the eyes of his father Jaimie danced with the ones he knew to be wealthy, and even the ones that simply caught his eye.
"My lord, may I introduce my daughter, the Lady Poppy of House Algood," said a feeble-looking lord that Jaime barely recognized. The maid was comely enough, with her dark hair and dull green eyes. Jaime escorted her to the floor, placing his newly-made golden hand on her waist.
Jaimie saw the girl recoil in disgust at his touch. "I—I am so very sorry, my lord. I must go," she said as she untangled herself from his arms, giving his metal hand a glance before disappearing into the colorful crowd.
Jaimie sighed. This is going to require more effort than I thought. Next time I won't let them leave the crippled knight so easily.
Sansa had spent the feast picking at her plate, responding to Margaery beside her from time to time as not to seem uncourteous. Once Tyrion had beckoned her to the table, Sansa had rushed to her seat between Margaery and Lord Varys, almost tripping on her hem. As she passed the King, Sansa had seen Joffrey grinning, eyeing her up and down. Two seats down was Littlefinger, who had looked at her approvingly before returning to his cup.
Once the dancing began, Sansa remained in her seat, unsure what to do. She glanced up as Margaery was led away by her father. To her left, Lord Varys and Littlefinger were engaged in conversation, leaving her practically alone at the table.
"Stand up, Sansa. Maybe someone will want to dance with you," a voice whispered from behind her chair. Sansa turned to see Joffrey standing there, a cool smile playing on his thick lips. The king pulled her up, positioning her in front of him. Joffrey wrapped an arm around her waist, and used the other to begin tracing the scars on her exposed back. Sansa flinched at his touch, causing Joffrey to tighten his grip.
"Do you see those maids out there, Sansa? That will never be you, do you hear? Especially not after I'm done with you." Sansa could feel his heavy breath on her back as he inched his hand up to her chest. Sansa felt his clammy hand begin to reach under the fabric when a finely dressed man walked up. The king immediately released her, giving her waist a squeeze before returning to his seat.
"The beautiful Lady Sansa, what a pleasure it is. Would you please accompany me in this dance?" the man said. He was dressed well, most likely a wealthier knight of the Westerlands. Remembering Littlefinger's words, Sansa allowed him to lead her over to the dance floor. The man didn't speak, he merely held her as they spun across the floor. Every time Sansa faced the front table, she saw Littlefinger watching her, his fingers resting casually against his narrow chin.
