Robert roared with laughter that shook the great hall. Grasping a flagon of ale he careened wildly between the tables, cuffing men on their shoulders and pulling at maids' dresses.
Sansa sat quite still. She was seated at the high table, between her mother and Cersei. The side of her facing Cersei felt much colder. The queen looked upon her king with ill-concealed disdain.
"Your mother says you're quite a skilled embroiderer," said Cersei. Her gleaming, green eyes studied Sansa.
"Yes, your grace," Sansa said demurely, "I do like to embroider. I can't speak to my skill of it though."
"Did you do the wolf on your chest?" Cersei asked.
"Yes, your grace," said Sansa, placing her hand on her chest, protectively over her work.
"Beautiful," said Cersei, "you must make something for me one day. Or my son. Joffrey would love to have a favor from such a talented girl."
"Thank you, your grace," said Sansa ducking her head so Cersei couldn't see her eyes, "Prince Joffrey is a handsome and gallant prince. I wish to please him."
"And you will," said Cersei with a false smile, "no wolves for my son though. A lovely little stag perhaps. I hear that the Stark children keep wolves as pets."
"Yes, your grace," Sansa said with a smile, "all of my father's children have wolves. My wolf is a lovely creature. I named her Lady because she's so docile."
"Ladies must be docile," Cersei agreed, "wolves though, not so much. I would caution you against bringing the wolf with you to the capital. Such a wild beast will not please Prince Joffrey."
"Oh no, your grace," Sansa said eyes wide, "Lady is the tamest creature that ever lived. Joffrey is so kind and gentle, he will love Lady."
Cersei's lips pulled back over her teeth, "perhaps. The South will be different, Lady Sansa. We must get you into some lovely silks. Some ribbons for your pretty hair."
Cersei reached out and fingered the end of Sansa's braid. Sansa fought the urge to slap her hand.
"Oh thank you, your grace," Sansa gushed, "I wouldn't know how to wear such pretty dresses though. You must show me."
Cersei smiled flatly at her, and turned back to sip her wine.
Jon's blood was thrumming through his veins. He hacked savagely at the training dummy. The din of the banquet drifted into the night. He had gone to the banquet, sat at the end of the table like a good bastard. He had watched Sansa giggle as Cersei spoke to her. It was unbearable to watch that, and be able to do nothing.
He trusted Sansa implicitly. If anyone was clever enough, strong enough to survive King's Landing it was Sansa. But watching her with the King and Queen reminded him that they would be parted soon. She would be at the mercy of the Lannisters, a thousand miles away from him. A thousand miles away while he fought distant enemies, unable to touch the ones that surrounded her.
"Is he dead yet?" His uncle appeared, gesturing to the hacked up dummy.
Jon turned. "Uncle Benjen!"
He embraced his uncle, holding back tears. He hadn't seen his uncle since he'd sacrificed himself to send Jon back to the Wall.
"You got bigger," said Benjen smiling at him, "I rode all day. Didn't want to leave you alone with the Lannisters. Why aren't you at the feast?
Jon smiled grimly, "It isn't proper to have a bastard at a royal banquet."
"Well," Benjen sighed, "you're always welcome on the Wall. No bastard has ever been refused a seat there."
"Father told you I was interested."
"Yes," said Benjen frowning down at Jon, "But the wall isn't going anywhere, son. You don't understand what you'd be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. You should live your life before making this kind of commitment."
Jon shook his head. "I'm ready to go, Uncle Benjen," he said, "we can discuss it with Father."
"Aye, we will," said Benjen, "I'm off to rescue him from his guests now. But we will talk later."
He ruffled Jon's hair and disappeared into the hall.
"Your uncle's in the Night's Watch."
Jon nearly came out of his skin. He turned to see Tyrion Lannister standing in the flickering torchlight.
"My lord," he said hoarsely, eyeing the man, "forgive me. I was started."
"I've been told I'm a startling man," Tyrion said, watching him, "I've always wanted to see the Wall."
"Have you?" said Jon, "why?"
"I want to see the greatest structure ever built by men," said Tyrion, "I want to stand on the edge of the world and piss off the side of it." He cocked his head and examined Jon. "You're Ned Stark's bastard boy."
"Aye," said Jon in a measured tone, "and you're Tyrion Lannister. Lord of Casterly Rock."
Tyrion snorted. "My dear boy, I am not lord of anything. If my father dies without discovering a way of disinheriting me, then perhaps I will be Lord of Casterly Rock. But I doubt that very much. I have more faith in my father's hatred for dwarf sons." He grinned crookedly at Jon.
"Being a dwarf is a bit like being a bastard, isn't it?" asked Jon.
"Very wise words," Tyrion said looking at him curiously, "I've always said that all dwarves are bastards in their fathers' eyes."
"We must wear our titles like armor," said Jon, "then they can never be used to hurt us."
"A very smart bastard you are," said Tyrion. He looked at Jon intently. "I feel like we might be good friends, you and I."
"Perhaps," said Jon mildly.
"Are you planning on going to the Wall when your uncle returns?" asked Tyrion.
"Yes," said Jon, "I will go with him when he returns. The Wall's a bit more forgiving of bastards than the court of Winterfell."
"Would you take a dwarf with you?"
Jon hesitated. Tyrion Lannister needed to be kept alive. Jon disliked the idea of taking him on such an arduous journey. But, Jon supposed, he had done it once before.
"I could be convinced," said Jon, "it's not a pleasant journey though, I warn you."
"I'm an unpleasant man," said Tyrion, "seems this journey and I will be fit for each other. Have a good night, Snow."
He wandered off, a drink hanging loosely from his fingertips.
Sansa tucked her dressing gown snugly around her shoulders as she hurried through the dark halls. Her candle flickered in the corridor.
She slipped into the library, quiet as a mouse. Carefully, she removed several texts that she had hidden beneath a chair. Settling at the desk, Sansa returned to what she had been reading of the glass gardens. The first architects had recorded their processes. These drawings would be invaluable to the creation of new gardens.
As Sansa read, she felt her mind relaxing. It was wonderful to distract herself from her current troubles. She had been forced to engage Joffrey at the feast. She had flattered him endlessly. Every complement crawled like spiders over her skin.
Suddenly, the door to the library burst open. A stumbling figure fell to the ground in the doorway before righting himself with a laugh. The stench of ale pervaded the air.
Sansa was frozen with horror, until the figure stepped into the light and revealed himself.
"Lord Tyrion."
Sansa relaxed. Tyrion would never lay a hand on her, no matter how drunk he was.
Tyrion swung his head around and stared at her.
"Lady Sansa Stark," he slurred, "I'm so sorry to interrupt you, my lady"
"It is not trouble at all, Lord Tyrion," said Sansa, smoothly closing her book, "I do hope you enjoyed the banquet tonight. If you'll forgive me, I should take my leave and go to bed."
"Do you like to read?" said Tyrion sounding baffled.
Sansa paused. "On occasion," she said, "it can be a relaxing pastime."
Tyrion shook his head. "You don't… you don't look like a lady who likes to read, Lady Sansa."
Sansa glared at him. "You don't look like a man who knows much of ladies."
Tyrion chuckled, and sat down heavily in a chair, the word scraping harshly across the stones. Sansa flinched from the sound.
"Did I scare you, my lady?" asked Tyrion. His eyes looked glazed. He was having trouble focusing on her.
"No Lord Tyrion," said Sansa, "you could never frighten me."
"That's good, that's good," said Tyrion shaking his head, "I hear we may be family soon. You are engaged to my nephew."
"No," said Sansa, "you have heard incorrectly. Joffrey and I are not engaged."
"Joffrey is a handsome prince," said Tyrion spreading his hands, "and you, my lady, are a beautiful girl. This is the way the world works."
"Not always," whispered Sansa, "sometimes the songs aren't true."
Tyrion surged unsteadily to his feet. Sansa scrambled back as he slammed his palms down on the desk.
"Songs, songs, my lady," Tyrion mumbled. He tried to step forward, but tripped. He smacked his chin on the desk, and fell to the ground. The flagon in his hand bounced across the stones and clattered loudly.
"My lord!" Sansa cried. She picked up her skirts, and kneeled by his side.
Tyrion's head lolled on his neck. She put a hand on his face to steady him, and met his eyes.
"You love songs," he slurred, blinking up at her, "Little Wife."