Mid January, 299 AC
"He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I'd be merciful, and I was. If he hadn't been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death."
Sansa stared at Joffrey, her skin like ice beneath her shift. She'd done all the queen commanded. She'd written every lie in their letters, begged on her knees before the whole court. Not a whisper of an insult had passed Sansa's lips, not even when she wanted to scream the truth for all to hear.
She'd almost done it, on the steps of the Great Sept. Joffrey ordered them to take her father's head, just as he had in her dream. Sansa's blood had boiled with fury, her skin rippling. She could smell every person in the crowd, from Baelish's mint breath to Varys' lavender perfume. Her mind filled with sensations she'd never felt. Cold snow on her paws, a coat of fur so warm it seemed a part of her skin. The bond of the pack and the taste of freshly killed meat.
She screamed, she howled her rage, and then she looked up. Father's grey eyes were upon her, a sad smile on his lips. He knew. Lord Eddard had been delirious when she finally managed to follow Varys into the dungeons, talking to her as though she was a ghost. Father had said that all would be well. Father had lied. She stared at him, accusation in her eyes. Before she could speak, Lord Eddard's lips moved.
"I knew. I love you." His voice was so soft that none could hear it, none but a girl with the ears of a wolf.
Sansa breathed heavily as she pulled herself together, pushing away the itch in her skin and the pounding of her blood. Breathe in and count to four, Arya had told her. Father's eyes looked away, and Sansa knew he'd found Arya clinging to the statue's feet. Now was the moment, she could shriek the truth before they could kill her... Arya is here. They might find her. Father gave his life so the Queen would spare me. And so Sansa Stark held her tongue and watched her father die.
"Aren't you listening to me? Ser Meryn, chastise her."
Ser Meryn backhanded Sansa across the face, knocking her to the floor. Her head was ringing and warm blood trickled down from her ear, droplets staining the rushes. A knight of the Kingsguard, sent to kidnap a child of nine and ordered to strike a lady of twelve. And he didn't even catch Arya. Such songs they'll sing of his triumphs, Sansa thought giddily. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Softpaws and Buttons were hiding under the bed beside her, staring silently. She did not blame them. Cats were no match for a knight, even a false one.
"Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?"
Ser Arys was frowning, but Ser Meryn had no look on his face at all. He might as well have been a stick used to beat dogs, not a man made of flesh and blood.
"I... as... as you command, my lord."
As soon as her bath was ready Sansa sent the maids away. Her limbs felt heavy as lead as she washed away the filth of the last five days. The scar where she'd cut her arm to feed the weirwood tree was silvery in the water, a reminder of her promise to the old gods. And how had they answered her prayers? A keen nose, sharp ears, and nightmares that changed nothing.
Softpaws perched on the edge of the tub, watching over Sansa as she scrubbed her skin until it shone. Buttons, who didn't like water, perched on a chair, his tail flicking. He was angry. Even the black tom cat in his worst moods didn't attack babies.
He had to, Sansa told the ginger kitten. All of us must obey the king. But would Ser Barristan have struck her, if they'd not sent him away? Sansa could not imagine the kindly old knight striking a helpless maid. The Kingslayer had tried to kill Bran, he would have struck her with a smirk like his son's.
What would his old brothers have thought of Ser Jaime? Once the Kingsguard were men of honor, men like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell. They wouldn't have followed Joffrey's commands so easily. At least Joffrey hadn't ordered the death of her cats.
Softpaws nuzzled against Sansa's shoulder, careful not to fall in the water. He wouldn't get a chance, the mama cat said. All the cats knew to hide around monster boy. He'd gutted a pregnant cat once to see her kittens. The black tomcat had taken vengeance the next day, slashing monster boy with his claws. Even the cats had someone to avenge them, but Sansa had no one to protect her from Joffrey now. She sank down, keeping only her nose and forehead above the steaming water.
Softpaws mewled and butted Sansa's head, her sandpaper tongue licking the tip of Sansa's nose. At least the girl and the chubby boy were nice. The chubby boy petted every cat he saw, his hands gentle, while the girl made cooing noises. Myrcella and Tommen, Sansa told Softpaws.
How such sweet children came from Cersei... Sansa would never understand. Sansa once thought bastards were shameful, treacherous and cruel. But her brother Jon was a bastard, and he had more honor than the trueborn queen. Myrcella and Tommen were bastards too, but they were sweeter than honey, gentler than a sigh. Joffrey was the only one as cruel and vain as Cersei.
"He wants you to love him... and fear him." The Hound had rasped, lingering after Joffrey and Ser Meryn and Ser Arys left. He was no knight, but he'd tried to help her. Sansa could never love Joffrey, never, but she could pretend. She should fear him, he could have her killed like father, but as Sansa rose from the bath to make herself beautiful, her stomach rumbling, all she felt was anger.
Servants came to help prepare her, but when they left she was still too angry to eat. Sansa paced the room like a caged wolf, wringing her hands.
Growing kittens need food, Softpaws scolded, one paw holding Buttons down as she washed his ears. At least something small. The servants had brought buttermilk and sweet biscuits, but the sight of them made Sansa queasy. Buttons escaped his mother and hopped on Sansa's lap to comfort her, mewling sweetly. When that didn't work, he flopped on his back, purring as Sansa idly scratched his belly.
If only she could visit the godswood! She needed to be brave, she needed to feel something of Winterfell, of home. The weirwood tree would be a comfort, it would give her the strength she needed. But there wasn't time- they might summon her to court at any moment. She had nothing of the weirwood here, no leaves or branches...
Sansa's tummy flipped. She stood, Buttons leaping to the ground with a chirp of annoyance. With shaking hands Sansa opened her wooden chest, taking out a soft fabric bag.
Sansa poured half the seeds into her palm. They shone like pearls in the light as she raised them to her lips.
The strange taste still lingered in Sansa's mouth as she watched Joffrey hold court from the empty balcony. She almost wanted to laugh at the mummer's farce. Lord Eddard Stark had sat on that throne once, ordering justice for the people of Sherrer. Now her father was dead, his head on a spike for daring to speak the truth. He had offered mercy, and they killed him. Now a bastard born of incest sat the throne, ordering a hand cut off for the theft of four coppers, ordering knights to fight to the death over a mile of land.
When they finally dismissed court, Joffrey was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He extended his arm gallantly, his courtesies as false as her own. Sansa half listened as they walked, nodding and smiling as he gloated over his name day and insulted her. I'm not stupid, she thought fiercely. I know who your father is. I know Baelish betrayed my father. I know you're as bad a king as Aegon IV or Maegor the Cruel.
When she realized Joffrey was leading her to the traitor's walk, she pulled away from him, unable to hide her terror. Sansa didn't want to see father's head, not again, never again. His legs had jerked... something thrummed in her blood. She tasted snow and honey, she felt the last embrace her father had given her. Her head held high, Sansa ascended the stairs.
"How goes the war against the traitors?" Sansa asked as they walked, her skin tingling. Joffrey scowled, gripping her arm tighter.
"My grandfather fought a northern host to a draw. We captured some of their lords, they captured some of ours. And your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. If I had led them we'd have sent them running with their tails between their legs."
They reached the top, and Joffrey's mood changed as quick as lightning, a cruel smirk upon his wormy lips as he led her to the iron spikes. Sansa ignored them, gazing out at the city below.
From the high battlements of the gatehouse Sansa could see half the world. There were Visenya's and Rhaenys' hills, named for the first Targaryen Queens. There were the tall stone walls that surrounded the city, the enormous gates set at intervals to permit passage.
There were so many people. Tiny specks moved through the streets, mere ants. Sansa had never really thought about how many smallfolk were in the city, or in the Seven Kingdoms. Butchers and bakers, millers and smiths, singers and whores. Had the whores helped Arya escape by now? Had they gotten Jeyne and Merissa out? Perhaps they were already on their way to Riverrun to be welcomed by their Tully kin.
"What are you looking at?" Joffrey said. "This is what I wanted you to see, right here."
Joffrey led her down the row of spikes. The distorted faces could not hurt her, they were already dead and gone, their spirits at peace. Father was unrecognizable, as was the face Joffrey claimed to be her septa. Septa Mordane snored when she dozed, Sansa thought, but now her nose was gone. Joffrey grew more frustrated with each head as she looked calmly at the faces, dipped in tar and ravaged by the beaks of crows.
"You haven't said what you mean to give me for my name day," Joffrey finally said, his voice dangerously gallant. "Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?"
"If it please you, my lord," Sansa replied. She doubted he'd give her a gift, but she knew what her gift would be. She'd finish the handkerchief for him, and bow and scrape as he wanted. Her courtesies were a gift to the ungrateful boy. If she were Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, she'd have already killed him where he stood.
"Your brother is a traitor. After my name day feast, I'm going to raise a host and kill him myself. That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother's head."
The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. Perhaps the drop should make her dizzy, but her blood was singing in her veins. A breeze as cold as ice brushed against her cheeks. All caution fled as the tingling of her skin sank deeper, setting her very bones afire.
"Maybe my brother will give me yours."
Joffrey scowled. "You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her."
This time Sansa was ready. She kept her head still as the walls of Winterfell as the knight struck her, once on each cheek. Sansa licked her lips, her gaze fixed on Ser Meryn's bloodshot eyes. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth, and she heard the howling of wolves in the distance.
Ser Meryn stepped back, a look of dread on his dour face. Sansa almost laughed. A knight of the Kingsguard, frightened by her? But the Hound was not a knight, and he was not afraid. His eyes burned as he stared at Sansa, stepping forward slowly as he pulled out a handkerchief. It was white, white as snow, white as the direwolf on father's doublet, white as the bark of the weirwood tree.
The weirwood called to her from the godswood below, embracing her, thanking her for giving it life. And so she should, for she was a weirwood tree, she had fed it her blood and eaten its seeds, and they were one, her skin as pale as bone-white bark, her hair as flaming as the leaves. Let go, the weirwood said. Accept our gift. Sansa's heart pounded like a drum, and she breathed out. Yes.
Something snapped. The smells and sounds Sansa kept at bay came flooding in. She could smell everything, from the stink of fish on Joffrey's breath to the sweat of the men in the yard below. Her ears tingled with every sound, the ravens quorking in the rookery, horses neighing in the stables, dogs barking in the kennels. Dimly Sansa felt Buttons and Softpaws flee her room, drawn to some burst of shining power on the walls.
The smell of nightsoil assaulted Sansa's sensitive nose, and she turned to look at Joffrey. The King stood frozen with terror, his mouth open, his entire body trembling, a dark wet patch at his groin. Ser Meryn fled the battlements, his armor clanging, his white cloak fluttering behind him. The Hound stepped back, his face pale, his eyes wide and white with fear as though he looked at wildfire.
Sansa's own voice echoed in her ears. Please, I know you sent the direwolves to us. Do not let me be the only Stark without any protection.
And the old gods answered.
Blood.
Pain shot across her skin, a thousand needles piercing every vein, a thousand hammers smashing every bone.
Tears.
Sansa screamed in agony, she screamed her fury and her sorrow and a howl echoed through the dusk.
Direwolf .
She heard the sound of ripping fabric, and tried to cover herself with hands she did not have. They were gone, replaced by soft pads and sharp claws.
Queen .
Visions flashed before her eyes. A ring of weirwoods surrounded her, each with a different face. A maid in seashells kissed a wolf crowned with bronze. A knight with black hair knelt before Sansa in the yard of the Red Keep, his leathers bloody, his sword at her feet, smallfolk cheering, lords and ladies staring in shock.
Yes.
Sansa fell to all fours, shaking off the last bits of fabric that caged her, her paws pressing against the stone, her powerful legs ready-
YES .
With a leap the great red direwolf cast herself at Joffrey, taking them both over the edge.
-End Part I-
This ends Part I: Wolf Pup. I will crosspost/upload Part II: Red Wolf later this week.
Notes
The original idea for this fic was simple: what if Sansa had shoved Joffrey? If he fell alone, he'd die, but Cersei would have Sansa executed immediately, hostage or not. If Sansa fell with him, she would die too- so how could she escape?
And then I wondered... how far of a drop can a wolf survive? It turns out that there are stories of dogs surviving falls of around 70 ft, and the idea of Sansa as a wolf was born.
But what magic would give Sansa such power? I've read plenty of fun AUs that have Starks as werewolves, but I wanted to stick close to the books. And then I thought- if skinchangers can slip their skins, why couldn't an incredibly powerful skinchanger actually change their skin? All the magic that works in Westeros appears to be blood magic, and from there came the idea of Lady being buried beneath a weirwood, Sansa injuring herself while trying to say goodbye, and then accidentally making a blood pact with the Old Gods.
Bel is the fat singer Ned saw at Baelish's brothel in canon. I decided to give her a name and history, partially because GRRM is usually crappy about sex workers and smallfolk.
The qithara is a Moorish instrument which is the ancestor of the guitar; in this fic the Rhoynar will be based on Moors and Dorne will be based on Moorish Andalucia. Because Black and brown people lived in medieval Europe, dammit, and they had some pretty awesome culture.