"The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you," Sandor Clegane warned her.
Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way he had looked at her filled her with dread. Had Joffrey found out about her meetings with Ser Dontos? Please no, she thought as she brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was her only hope. I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was tight across her chest.
When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound's left, away from the side of his scarred face. "Tell me what I've done."
"Not you. Your kingly brother."
"Robb's a traitor." Sansa knew the words by rote. "I had no part in whatever he did." Gods be good, don't let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.
The Hound snorted. "They trained you well, little bird." He conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd had gathered around the archery butts. Men moved aside to let them through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing. Loitering stablehands eyed her insolently, but Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she passed, and his brother Hobber pretended not to see her. A yellow cat was dying on the ground, mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel through its ribs. Sansa stepped around it, feeling ill.
Ser Dontos approached on his broomstick horse; since he'd been too drunk to mount his destrier at the tourney, the king had decreed that henceforth he must always go horsed. "Be brave," he whispered, squeezing her arm.
Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. The sight of them was enough to tie her insides in knots.
"Your Grace." She fell to her knees.
"Kneeling won't save you now," the king said. "Stand up. You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."
"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please—"
"Get her up!"
The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.
"Ser Lancel," Joff said, "tell her of this outrage."
Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well spoken, but there was neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave her. "Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift a defence. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."
Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa's throat.
"You have nothing to say?" asked Joffrey.
"Your Grace, the poor child is shocked witless," murmured Ser Dontos.
"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten that we have two of your wolves in the kennels."
Fear gripped Sansa and she could feel its cold hands coiling up her back. "Your Grace, Lady and Nymeria have never hurt anyone," Sansa pleaded, Nymeria was all she had left of her sister. "They have done nothing wrong."
"They're wrong by nature," Joff said, "I should kill you like I killed your father. I wish I'd done it myself. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat."
"And he died?" With the ugly iron head of the quarrel staring her in the face, it was hard to think what else to say.
"Of course he died, he had my quarrel in his throat. There was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the arm." Frowning, he lowered the crossbow. "I'd shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they'd kill my uncle Jaime. Instead you'll just be punished and we'll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn't yield. Dog, hit her."
"Let me beat her!" Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a "morningstar" whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all. He trotted his broomstick around her, shouting "Traitor, traitor" and whacking her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her hands, staggering every time the fruit hit her, her hair sticky by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces. Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.
Joffrey did not so much as snigger. "Boros. Meryn."
Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely away. The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and all. Ser Boros seized Sansa.
"Leave her face," Joffrey commanded. "I like her pretty."
Boros slammed a fist into Sansa's belly, driving the air out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat. As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her might break from the force of the blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over soon. She soon lost count of the blows.
"Enough," she heard the Hound rasp.
"No it isn't," the king replied. "Boros, make her naked."
Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa's bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel. "Beat her bloody," Joffrey said, "we'll see how her brother fancies—"
"What is the meaning of this?"
The Imp's voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa was free. She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest, her breath ragged. "Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser Boros?" Tyrion Lannister demanded angrily. His pet sellsword stood with him, and one of his wildlings, the one with the burned eye. "What sort of knight beats helpless maids?"
"The sort who serves his king, Imp." Ser Boros raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade scraping clear of its scabbard.
"Careful with those," warned the dwarf's sellsword. "You don't want to get blood all over those pretty white cloaks.
"Someone give something to cover herself with," the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine.
"This girl's to be your queen," the Imp told Joffrey. "Have you no regard for her honor?"
"I'm punishing her."
"For what crime? She did not fight her brother's battle."
"She has the blood of a wolf."
"And you have the wits of a goose."
"Tyrion!"
Sansa turned round and saw a large group of men marching into the throne room. Many were still wearing riding leathers and armour. Dirt clung to their tunics. The man at the head of the party was different. He was dressed in a splendid red velvet tunic with a lions broach holding his crimson cloak around his shoulders. He was balding but enough of his golden hair was there to show he was a Lannister.
"Uncle?" the dwarf's mismatched eyes opened in shock. Sansa realised who the man was now. He was Kevan Lannister, brother of Tywin Lannister and uncle to the queen.
"That is no way to speak to your king." Tyrion looked to the floor sheepishly. "Your Grace," he bowed deeply to Joffrey.
Joffrey smirked, "Lord Kevan, we heard that you were with my grandfather at Harrenhal. Too tired of the fighting, are you?" Joffrey laughed loudly. "I suppose younger men are better suited to fight Robb Stark. He is running circles around you old men and all you do is sit in Harrenhal."
Lord Kevan's face remained impassive. "Your Grace, your grandfather is fighting your war the best way he sees fit. He has proven himself many times over during the many wars he has fought. He will win this one like all of the others. As for myself, my brother felt that I would be of better use here in the Capital as the traitor Renly Baratheon approaches."
"I don't know what much use you will be to me," Joffrey scoffed, "but at least you brought some able young men with you."
"Of course, Your Grace. We cannot remain young forever."
Joffrey was pleased with his answer. "We should meet later to discuss what to do with the new men that you brought me." Joffrey turned to her and raised his crossbow again. "Now, what am I going to do with you?"
Sansa looked down as her flood of tears was renewed. She clutched the Hound's cloak even tighter as Lord Kevan spoke up once more. "Your Grace, she is your betrothed and she should be afforded a certain modicum of respect." She looked up at him and wondered why he was defending her. He just doesn't want to lose a hostage like Arya, Sansa surmised.
"Respect?" Joffrey scoffed incredulously. He dubiously looked his great-uncle up and down. "Her family are traitors! I'm being generous enough not throwing her into the black cells."
"She is just a girl, you idiot!" the Imp barked.
Joffrey balked at first but his face morphed into a furious scowl. "You can't talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes."
"Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever told you what happened to him?"
"Tyrion!" Lord Kevan looked nearly as angry as Joffrey.
Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. "No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard."
Tyrion Lannister raised an eyebrow. "I am not threatening the king, ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, Timett, the next time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him." The dwarf smiled. "Now that was a threat, ser. See the difference?"
Ser Boros turned a dark shade of red. "The queen will hear of this!"
"No doubt she will. And why wait? Joffrey, shall we send for your mother? "
The king flushed.
"Nothing to say, Your Grace?" his uncle went on. "Good. Learn to use your more and your mouth less, or your reign will be shorter than I am. Meaningless brutality is no way to win your people's love . . . or your queen's."
"Enough!" Kevan Lannister's voice sliced through the arguments and everyone looked to him. "Ser Loren." A tall man stepped forward with a three lion heads emblazoned on his surcoat. "Take the Lady Sansa to the Tower of the Hand and guard her until I arrive." The man rounded on Sansa and she cringed away from him as he bent down, fear gripping her heart.
"My lady," he offered his hand with a smile.
She did not know what to do and just sat there for a second, gawping at him. Sansa tentatively took his and she rose, careful not to let the Hound's cloak fall. He escorted her out of the throne room at the pace she went. No one looked at them, they were all engrossed by Kevan Lannister. "Clegane, take the king to his rooms, he is tired. Tyrion, you will come with me."
"I am not tired!" Joffrey screeched. That was the last thing she heard before she rounded the corner.
When Sansa came to the entrance of the Tower of the Hand, she begun to cry. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace. It made her feel faint to climb those steps again but Ser Loren had both hands on her, forcing her to stay upright.
Some serving girls took charge of her, mouthing meaningless comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped off the ruins of her gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were the faces from the bailey. Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them. Sansa had thought that Damon was the one who poisoned everyone's minds when she first came hear but she saw clearly now that they were never pure to begin with.
After she was clean, plump ginger-headed Maester Frenken came to see her. He bid her lie facedown on the mattress while he spread a salve across the angry red welts that covered the backs of her legs. Afterward he mixed her a draught of dreamwine, with some honey so it might go down easier. "Sleep a bit, child. When you wake, all this will seem a bad dream."
No it won't, you stupid man, Sansa thought, but she drank the drearnwine anyway, and slept.
It was dark when she woke again, not quite knowing where she was, the room both strange and strangely familiar. As she rose, a stab of pain went through her legs and brought it all back. Tears filled her eyes. Someone had laid out a robe for her beside the bed. Sansa slipped it on and opened the door. Outside stood Ser Loren who was still wearing the same surcoat and had his hand on the pommel of his sword.
"My lady," he smiled. "I trust you are feeling better."
She didn't trust his act but Sansa forced herself to smile sweetly back at him. "Much better. Thank you, ser."
Sansa took a step to move past him but he nimbly hopped in her way. "Where do you think you are going?"
"The godswood." She had to find Ser Dontos, beg him to take her home now before it was too late.
"Ser Kevan said you are not allowed to leave," the knight said. "If you pray here, the gods will surely hear."
Meekly, Sansa dropped her eyes and retreated back inside. She realized suddenly why this place seemed so familiar. They've put me in Arya's old bedchamber, from when Father was the Hand of the King. All her things are gone and the furnishings have been moved around, but it's the same . . .
A short time later, a serving girl brought a platter of cheese and bread and olives, with a flagon of cold water. "Take it away," Sansa commanded, but the girl left the food on a table. She was thirsty, she realized. Every step sent knives through her thighs, but she made herself cross the room. She drank two cups of water, and was nibbling on an olive when the knock came.
Anxiously, she turned toward the door, smoothed down the folds of her robe. "Yes?"
The door opened, and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside. "My lady. I trust I am not disturbing you?"
"You can come and go when you please, my lord. I am your prisoner."
"You are my honoured guest, one who I wish to protect." If Sansa was still the stupid girl from Winterfell then she might have believed him, he sounded so earnest. He was wearing the chain of Hand of the King, a necklace of linked golden hands. Her father had worn and then the Imp. "I thought we might talk."
"As my lord commands." Sansa stared at the portly man. He wasn't handsome like most of the Lannister's seemed to be, he had grown a beard that hid a massive jaw.
"The food and garments are to your satisfaction?" he asked. "If there is anything else you need, you have only to ask. I am determined that your stay in King's Landing be as satisfying as anyone could hope for, from this point on."
"You are most kind. I thank you for taking care of me after . . . this morning."
"You have a right to know why Joffrey was so wroth. Six nights gone, your brother fell upon my cousin Stafford, encamped with his host at a village called Oxcross not three days ride from Casterly Rock. Your brother and his northerners won a crushing victory. We received word only this morning. I didn't even know until after that business in the throne room.
Robb will kill you all, she thought, exulting. "It's . . . terrible, my lord. My brother is a vile traitor."
"Well, he's no young pup, he's made that clear enough."
"Ser Lancel said Robb led an army of wargs . . . "
The fat man gave an amused chuckle. "My son is prone to believing in every rumour that comes to the walls. He would not know what a warg was if it was in front of him. Your brother had his direwolf with him, but I suspect that's as far as it went. The northmen crept into my uncle's camp and cut his horse lines, and Lord Stark sent his wolf among them. Even war-trained destriers went mad. Knights were trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror and fled, casting aside their weapons to run the faster. Ser Stafford was slain as he chased after a horse. Lord Rickard Karstark drove a lance through his chest. Ser Rubert Brax is also dead, along with Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast. Half a hundred more have been taken captive, including Jast's sons and my . . . my son Martyn. Those who survived are spreading wild tales and swearing that the old gods of the north march with your brother."
"Then . . . there was no sorcery?"
The Lannister snorted derisively. "Just because he had his wolf does not mean it was sorcery. It makes him more of a savage than a wizard. They only blame it on magic to hide my cousin Stafford's incompetence. He thought he was safe, being so close to the Rock. Ser Forley Prester guarded the Golden Tooth with four thousand men and it would have been futile for the Stark boy to try and take it. My dim cousin failed to post sentries and watchmen. His force of green boys, the stews of Lannisport were not even halfway through their training when your brother's horde fell upon them. We don't even know how he reached Stafford's forces. Ser Forley swore that they did not pass." He rubbed his temples. "Robb Stark no longer my headache though. I have Renly and Joffrey to deal with. Tell the truth, what do you think of our king?"
"I love him with all my heart," Sansa said at once.
Ser Kevan looked at her with sympathetic eyes, "Of course you do, child." It didn't sound like he believed her.
"My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever been," Sansa assured him.
He smiled wanly. "If you are going to lie child, try to make it sound more believable."
Sansa could feel the worry rise inside her. "I am not lying, my lord. I swear!" She was on the cusp of crying. "I live King Joffrey more than life itself. I have traitor's blood and he is so generous to allow me to stay here." Tears flowed freely now and she couldn't stop them.
He walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hush, child. Do not cry, this is not something worth shedding tears over." Sansa bit back the tears eventually just sniffling. Her clean robe was now damp with tears. "If it gives you any solace, child, there is a chance you may not even be wed to Joffrey. Betrothals are broken every day."
She knew she ought to say something, but the words caught in her throat.
"Is this what you want? An end to your betrothal?"
"I . . . " Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the knight's receding hairline, his beard which his his massive jaw. He was a Lannister and Sansa could not trust him. "I only want to be loyal."
"Loyal," Kevan Lannister mused, "and far from King's Landing. I can scarce blame you for that. You have had a harder time than most." He smiled. "They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, child?"
I pray for Robb's victory and Joffrey's death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. "I pray for an end to the fighting."
"We'll have that soon enough. There will be another battle, between your brother Robb and my lord brother, and that will settle the issue."
Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your cousin and your nephew Jaime, he'll beat your brother too.
It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the knight read her thoughts. "Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my lady," he told her, not unkindly. "One battle does not make a war and my brother is Stafford's better in every way. The next time that you visit the godswood, pray for your brother to bend the knee, that is what is best for everybody." He stepped away from her and said, "You shall rest here tonight. Ser Loren will stand guard for you, perhaps another one or two men—"
"No," Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf's men, how would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away to freedom?
"I'm sorry, my lady, but you need guards at your door and Ser Loren is a fine knight to watch over you."
"Please no, my lord, I would sooner return to my own bed." A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. "This tower was where my father's men were slain. Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked."
Kevan Lannister studied her face. "I am no stranger to nightmares, child. But I am sorry, I'm going to have to insist that you stay here. This is the best place that I can keep an eye on you, where I can keep you safe. Joffrey has proven that he does not care for your well-being so I must take you out of his way. I cannot risk your life to Joffrey's mood swings."
The knight turned around towards the door and left Sansa to be all alone again.