Part 2
her eyes were sparkling, like the snow that fell in his home. she was dangerous, lethal, yet so irresistible.
"And how do you answer, Lady Stark, for your brother's latest treasons?"
Sansa stares, blood feeling like tea in her veins, at the crossbow Joffrey points at her. With the slight press of his fingers she could be dead and placed next to her father's skull. Distantly, she feels her heart hammering in her chest, but can't be bothered to truly concern herself with it.
"Please, your Grace," she cries, "whatever my traitor brother has done, I had nothing to do with it!"
She senses Draco shift in his heavy armor behind her. They had learned, with great difficulty, that he is able to intervene very little in these punishments the king so enjoys doling out. If the king is not personally present, Draco never allows anyone to raise a hand to her. This has saved her from the likes of Meryn Trant more often than not; but if the King is watching, Draco must allow some blows to land, else they risk Draco's head as well and then she'll be truly alone. Luna is gone and she imagines her cousin is dead for challenging Joffrey sometime or other. Draco is all she has of home now, even if he is of the East. Still, she knows how he rages each time, when he carries her back to her quarters and glimpses the bruises under her gowns.
"Your brother slaughtered an army of Lannister men; the Northerners then fed their remains to wolves, and slurped the marrow of their bones themselves!"
Sansa knows there is no cannibalism in the North, only the rumors of Skagos, but she stays silent. She thinks of the way her body used to ache when Vitoria trained her to use a dagger, and how she would love to have one in her person at the moment, so she could present Joffrey's body to her brother when he marches on King's Landing.
"Killing you would send your brother a message, but my mother insists on keeping you alive," Joffrey scoffs. "Stand."
Sansa climbs to her feet, careful not to trip on the long sleeves of her gown. Luna had made it for her, silver with white and blue. It's not enough for her to be in danger simply for wearing it even if the silver borders on Stark grey, she can claim the white is for her purity and that the blue contrasted nicely with her hair.
"There are other ways of sending your brother a message. Meryn," Joffrey calls, and Sansa feels her stomach begin to flip. "Leave her face. I like her pretty."
Meryn slams a fist into her stomach before she has time to process the man moving; Sansa doubles over and is quite pleased with herself when she doesn't vomit. He removes his sword and knocks her to her knees again, and she wonders briefly what the point of having her stand at all was. She knows Draco is shifting, hand on his sword, and briefly she turns her head to seek out his eyes. He's the only one in court that never looks away from her pain.
He mouths something to her that she doesn't have time to make out before Joffrey says, "My lady is overdressed."
Of course, of course. She won't be able to keep her silvery Stark armor. Meryn grips the back of her dress so tightly the hem cuts into her collar bones and rips it from her shoulders. Desperately, she grabs at the front in an attempt to preserve her modesty, but one sleeve falls and exposes her entire back to the man's sword.
She feels a slice rather than a blow as Meryn's sword lands at the wrong angle, and then something wet; blood pools and stains the bottom of her dress.
Somewhere far away, a voice calls out, "What is the meaning of this?!"
Sansa tries valiantly to return to herself, but cannot. She knows she's gasping in air too quickly; through the blur of tears, she watches as Tyrion Lannister makes his way toward his nephew and the Iron Throne. He says something else, and then Draco is there, folding his thick cloak about her shoulders like a blanket.
"Ser Draco, why do you continue to serve Lady Stark? Her headless father cannot pay you."
"Lord Draco may only ever serve Sansa Stark because he is her sworn shield. He swore an oath before the gods," Tyrion reminds Joffrey, and even the bloodlust inside of him is no match for the sudden titterings of the court. No one, not even the king, is beyond the laws of the Seven, and Joffrey knows it.
She stands shakily, but attempts to keep her head high, as her lady mother would be proud. When she is dismissed, Draco reaches out an arm, as gallant as any true knight, and she folds hers through his elbow, leaning heavily against him. Tyrion follows them out, along with her lady maids who she knows are Cersei's spies.
"Tell me truly, my lady; do you wish an end to this engagement?" Tyrion asks.
Sansa thinks of Winterfell's small Sept, breathes in Draco's scent next to her, the only thing that connects her joyful past to her painful present.
"I am loyal to King Joffrey, my one true love."
Stepping out of the tunnel, Vitoria sighed in relief moving into the light and taking in where they were; they were definitely outside of Winterfell and she was glad Robb had told her about the tunnels after losing Torrhen. Emmett stood a little away from the entrance with the three horses prepared for the trip and Rena.
Despite Theon showing himself as an ally, she could not stay at the castle. It was swarmed with the Ironborn and she, at the very least, needed to protect her children as well as Bran and Rickon.
"We must move quickly, the last thing we need is the Ironborn catching us," Andrei insisted eyeing the small group, it wasn't going to be an easy task and he could only hope that the Ironborn didn't work out quickly that they were no longer in Winterfell. He could only hope the maester had managed to get Bran out through another way and that Vaith would be able to survive the coming months.
Vitoria nodded, turning around to wrap Artos to her chest with Lexa's offered shawl, trying to keep her tears at bay, Emmett crouched down so she could use his hands as a boost to settle on her saddle, before lifting Rickon in front of her, the boy resting awkwardly against his nephew.
It would be a long trip to the Westerlands where Robb was stationed with his army for the seven of them, with four direwolves at their back.
She was playing cards with Robb when the news of Theon Greyjoy's siege of Winterfell reached the Northern camp. Talisa sat there, hovering between wishing to remain to offer Robb support and needing to flee, not wanting to think about the children Robb lovingly described being beheaded by their foster brother. She did not want to remember the words of the envoy. She did not want to think about Vitoria Martell and how her death mirrored her aunt Elia's. How her babe was ripped from her womb before she was raped with her child's blood smeared across her body. This was the reality of war and she wanted nothing to do with it.
She thought Rollen meeting the same end, and vomit rose in her throat.
"Leave me," Robb rasped to his men, and Talisa rose as well, tears starting to shimmer in her eyes for the children she did not know – would never know – and what this war was bringing to Westeros.
"Talisa," he choked out, and she froze, startled by the sight of tears on Robb's face. "Talisa, will you stay?"
"Of course."
She knew it was not proper to climb onto the bed to sit beside him, but Talisa had never experienced grief like this before; she hoped to never experience this sort of grief. Robb clung to her as he sobbed, his entire body shaking from sorrow, and Talisa found herself crying along with him, whispering nonsense in pointless attempts to soothe, rocking him as if he was as small as his murdered daughters and not the King in the North. His grip upon her was tight, and Talisa tried to hold him back just as tightly, wanting to offer Robb something solid to hold onto.
"I'm here," she murmured, carding her fingers through his dark curls. "I'm here, I'm here, it will be alright."
It was a lie; Talisa knew it may never be alright again, but Robb Stark needed a kind lie in that moment.
The heat of his mouth against hers startled Talisa to the core. She had exchanged brief kisses with a few boys in her youth, but no one had ever kissed her like this. Robb's mouth tasted vaguely of the ale they had shared earlier in the day and the salt from his tears, and, for a moment, Talisa let herself be kissed without responding, trying to puzzle out everything which was happening.
"Talisa," Robb whispered, half-plea and half-awe, and Talisa wondered if anyone else would ever say her name like that again, if, Robb Stark had said his wife's name like that.