A/N: To the guest who posted the review about Joffrey and Robb's heights not being the same as in canon, when I said Robb was "twice Joffrey's size" I sort of meant in terms of bulk and thickness rather than height. I imagined them as being of roughly equal height, perhaps Joffrey a little taller, but I definitely always imagine him more skinny and lanky. And anyway, I think you'll agree with me that Robb would almost certainly win in a fight, so at least that part's accurate :)

Chapter 11

Sansa POV

So, Joffrey didn't call last night. And he said he would. Right at the end of school, he waited for me by the classroom door, and asked if I was free to talk later. And he didn't follow through. I don't know if I should be surprised, disappointed, defeatist, nonchalant…I sigh, louder than I intended, and several people at the bus stop turn to look at me, looks of impatient annoyance on their faces, as if it was my sighing that made the bus late.

Arya brings me out of my little inner argument, looking up at me with her piercing grey eyes, and utilizing her talent of always knowing what people are worrying about. "It's just some random boy, Sansa," she says, her voice frank and slightly tactless. Typical Arya. "I mean, you talked to him for what? A few classes?" She snorts a little. "He probably only said he would to impress you."

I roll my eyes. I'm used to playing the argumentative-little-sister game. "You'll understand some day, Arya. How long is it 'til you turn fifteen? Three years?"

Arya slaps me on the arm, slightly too hard to be playful. Sometimes she forgets that I'm not one of our brothers, or her rough-and-tumble friends at school. "Two and a half," She frowns. "I can hardly wait."

I laugh a little at this despite myself, and shoot an amiable glance at Robb, who stands at the other end of the bus stop. We've been waiting for the bus for about fifteen minutes, and he's been silent the entire time, lost in thought somehow, and even when Arya and I chat, he does nothing to join the conversation like he usually would. And it's not just today; something's definitely been up with him lately. It might be our father's death worrying him, I suppose, but most of us have at least partly recovered from it, even my mother, in an attempt to return to normal life. And there wasn't anything worrying about the incident…was there? I blink aggressively, to avoid looking like a tearful wreck coming into school.

Or maybe it's that girl. Daenerys, or whatever her name was. Robb never seems to notice when people are lying to him, so if they have…done anything, I hope that she isn't manipulating him in some way. Or perhaps I'm reading too far into it. He's probably just thinking about his whale anatomy project. Whale anatomy, I laugh to myself. They do such weird projects in final year.

Robb abruptly opens his mouth to speak. Think of the devil, I whisper to myself. But what he says surprises me more. "Sansa, Arya, I think I'm going to walk. The bus's taking a bit long."

"Robb, I– " Before I finish my sentence, I realise the real reason why Robb's suddenly so eager to walk the three miles or so to Iron Throne.

There's a red sports car pulling over to the kerb we're standing on, with gold embellishments and a lion statue on its bonnet. Two blonde heads occupy the front seats, and one of them calls my name in an unmistakable voice. I smile in relief that my brother saw the car and disappeared down the road in time. I don't like to think of what could have gone down if he found who the "mystery boy" from last night was.

"Sansa," Joffrey shouts to me, as the car parks a little down the street, standing up in his seat and leaning out of the open roof. Why don't they cover their roof on a bitter September morning like this one?, I wonder to myself. Because they're Lannisters, my brain automatically answers. They like to show they're different. They like to show that they're better than us. And they are.

"Sansa! I'm so sorry I couldn't call yesterday. I'm just so busy at the moment." His voice is chillingly clear, and much more eloquent than anything I've ever heard from my family and friends.

"Joffrey here has an absolutely packed social life, not to mention all the work he has to do. He has an almost perfect academic record, you know. Ninety-six per cent A stars." Joffrey blushes at this praise, which comes from the woman in the driving seat, whom I assume is his mother.

"I don't believe you two have had the pleasure. Sansa, I present my mother." I feel my cheeks flush at the formality of his tone and language. It makes me feel…special, in a way. Important.

Joffrey's mother rises from her seat and mirrors her son's position, leaning out of the car. Her face has a stern look to it, with high cheekbones, narrow eyes and a sharp jawline, but this translates into a harsh sort of beauty, like a cartoon villain. Long, conventionally "Lannister" blonde locks hang around her face, parted and braided into the sort of style I've seen online and tried (and failed) to emulate.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Lannister." I try to walk the line between too formal and not polite enough.

She laughs a little, a harsh sound, just like her face, and I worry for a second that I've said something wrong. "It's very nice to meet you too, Sansa." She puts the same sort of emphasis on my name as Joffrey did yesterday. Why do they always do that? "But please, call me Cersei."

I've grown up knowing the stereotype for Lannister behaviour, and Joffrey's mother – Cersei – seems a little too kind for that particular archetype. For a moment, Stark instincts tell me it's bait, a deception for young and impressionable girls like me, but then I remember that Cersei is Joffrey's mother, and if I disobeyed her, I'd disappoint him. "Cersei." I repeat, wearing the warmest smile I can muster.

Cersei smiles back, her lips pursed and her eyes cast to the side. Joffrey pipes up. "Would you like a ride into school, Sansa? The bus is late again; the Westerosi transport system is so faulty at the moment. Your sister can come too."

Again, the Stark instincts are back: don't trust these people, Sansa, they'll manipulate you and make you fall into their trap if you get too close to them. And DEFINITELY don't get into a car with a boy you met yesterday and a total stranger. But then I look again at Joffrey's soft green eyes, and his mother's welcoming smile, and I'm compelled to trust, or even befriend, them. They're very good at this you-should-trust-me thing.

"Sure. Sounds great!" I say happily, as I take Joffrey's hand to help me into the car, gesturing for Arya to follow.