The Pack Survives

by WhigBiskey

First Timer. Title is terrible, I know. No Dragons, No Others. When he is fourteen, Robb gets lost on a ranging north of the Wall searching for the stolen daughter of a Wull. He is thought dead, but returns three years later. Events are pushed back three years because the canon ages don't work for me. Everything belongs to GRRM.

9. Chapter 9

9-I

"My lady, may I have the honor of your favor?" Prince Joffrey asks Sansa as he readies for his first tilt. The Prince had not spoken a dozen words to her since they had arrived in the capital. Apparently, he had lost interest in her virtue now that he had returned to a city that catered to his desires. Still, she had sewn a favor for him, just in case he asked. It was the Baratheon Stag quartered with his mother's golden lion.

"Of course, my prince," she says, tying the silk scarf around the prince's arm. She gives him a smile that he returns, the gallant and beautiful prince. She can feel the muscles in her face as she works to maintain the smile, hoping that her eyes are as bright as she thinks. His are hungry and devoid of warmth. He takes her hand after she is done tying the scarf and plants a kiss on it with his wormy lips. She imagines Jeyne in her last moments and almost falters, but pushes the image away, and thinks of the Smalljon stripped to the waist instead, which brings a blush to her cheeks.

The Prince smirks and releases her hand and rides off to his squire to ready for his tilt.

"Maybe he'll get knocked off and break his neck," Arya whispers.

If only. The stories of Joffrey and his activities in Kings Landing are only different versions of the ones they heard on the kingsroad. Enough for her to believe her worst fears of him, believe that he raped and killed Jeyne, but they are nothing more than wind. Wind perhaps would be enough to get her father to break the betrothal. She thinks her desire alone would be enough for that, but neither wind nor desire would protect them from the Queen's ire. And they certainly would not be enough to get justice for Jeyne or Falmer or the hedge knight and his sons. She needed irrefutable evidence of the Prince's nature, of his involvement in the crime.

Arya spoke to Walder about what they found when tracking the killers. Not surprisingly, the giant said that they followed their tracks back to the Kings Party.

"A smart move," Arya said. "It's a train of nearly two hundred, wagons and horses. Anyone could fall into the procession without notice, and it effectively erases their tracks."

"Did anyone in the procession remember seeing them?" Sansa asked her sister.

"No," Arya told her. "I talked to loads of people, too, but no one could recall the hedge knight or his sons ever joining the party." Her sister smiled. "A few did remember Joffrey and his two thugs riding up on them."

"They remembered that?"

"Sure they did. The prince isn't the sort to ride with the smallfolk, is he?"

And that was it. The bulk of their evidence. Tracks that lead back to the king's procession, the wound on Boros's arm, and a few servants recalling Joffrey and Boros riding at the back of the train. And Joffrey's nature.

Perhaps he will get knocked off his horse and break his neck. She doubts it, though. His opponent is Ser Dontos Hollard. It is not yet noon, and the man looks half in his cups, sweating, and breathing heavily, and having trouble mounting his horse. She is right. They charge, and Ser Dontos is juggling lance and reins and shield from the beginning. Joffrey's lance strikes true and the knight falls in a heap. Joffrey raises his visor and rides around the grounds, one hand raised as the commons cheers their prince.

His next opponent is an upjumped squire that he dispatches easily enough, but the third rider he faces is The Hound, who has smashed his first two opponents, one being Black Walder Frey, and the other one of the Redwyne twins. His burned face is expressionless as he faces his young charge across the field.

"He's Joffrey's sworn shield. He'll fall on purpose, probably commanded to do it," Arya says.

Her words prove true. It's a good show, but Sansa sees the Hound let go of the reins right before impact. Joffrey's lance explodes against his shield, and the big man is on the ground. Joffrey makes another round as the crowd cheers. The Hound picks himself up, collects his horse, and walks off.

"Did you see it?" Arya asks.

"I did," Sansa replies. "The Hound dropped his reins early."

"And shifted his lance, so it would just glance off Joffrey's shield."

"You saw that?"

"Of course. I've got the true sight," she says with a smug grin.

"Ah. One of Syrio's maxims, of course." Her sister's dancing master has proven to be quite an addition to their father's retinue. She attended Arya's second lesson, and the bald man had her up and moving about with her sister. She tried to explain that she does not use weapons until Syrio, in a series of deft moves she hardly saw or felt, had her dagger and the stilettos from her hair clattering to the floor.

"You are not a sword, but you are a blade, and if you enter the training hall with the First Sword of Braavos, you will be a competent blade."

Before she knew it, half her dress was cut off, and she was sweating and pivoting and twirling and lunging around the room with her sister. Arya's smile could not have been bigger, even though the Braavosi had taken away their blades, even the wooden ones.

"We will work on the dance only today, and like every dance, it all begins with our feet, our balance."

Sansa prided herself on her dancing, but this had her crashing to the floor more often than not, much to Arya's delight.

Afterwards, he destroyed her in cyvasse, and then beat Arya even worse. "These are the foundations of the dance, yes? Our legs move, our minds think, we know that we are not dead."

She had returned with Arya to the training hall for her sister's lessons when she could get away from her other duties. She did not always spar, that was her sister's province, but she worked on her balance and footwork and took the old man's lessons to heart.

Today, however, they had to go to the tourney. Her father's tourney it was named though he had confessed that he hated the very idea of it; the kingdom was nearly bankrupt and could not afford such extravagance. She had practiced diligently with Luwin to become competent with numbers and sums, and had always done well with the accounts when she would go over them with her mother or her father or Poole. An entire kingdom on the verge of bankruptcy, however, was a concept that felt almost too big for her mind.

For years, she had dreamed of coming south and seeing the pageantry and chivalry of the summer kingdoms, but now that she is here and watching a tournament, she feels no joy, only a sense of anxiety due to her betrothed and to the...magnitude of the events in which she has found herself a part.

"Walder is up," Arya says, drawing Sansa's attention to the field. The sweet giant of Winterfell, who had given all of the Stark children countless rides on his massive shoulders and who had also slain scores of men during the Greyjoy Rebellion, including the sons of House Drumm and Victarion Greyjoy in single combat, had been flawless so far despite having the hardest draw. Ser Marq Piper, Ser Balon Swann, Lord Jason Mallister, and then a freerider named Lothor Brune, who had only just beaten Jory in his last tilt, had been the Giantsblood's opponents, and all had fallen on the first lance.

Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar, was his next opponent. Another westerman, another knight with more loyalty to Tywin Lannister and the queen than the king. He lowers his visor and thunders down the lists. Walder rides to meet him. There is a great crash as both lances explode. Walder rides easily away while the big knight from the Westerlands rolls and groans in the dirt. His squires rush to help him up, and he limps off the field. Arya is on her feet shouting, "Winterfell! Winterfell!" Sansa rises and chants with her sister. A horrified Septa Mordane tries to get them to sit down, but it is no use. Walder lifts his visor as he trots by and laughs at the girls as he salutes them. The commons show their approval with hearty applause.

As he rides off the field, Walder passes Ser Gregor Clegane, waiting for the next tilt to begin. The gigantic man is staring hard at him. Walder stares back. Not a word is exchanged between the two, but the crowd quiets as the two enormous knights take each other's measure. The moment passes as Walder's horse trots past.

"He's the knight who killed the boy in his first tilt," Arya says, referencing one of the first matches of the day and the most horrific moment.

"He's also the knight who killed baby Aegon Targaryen and raped the Princess Elia," Sansa replies in a low voice as she leans toward her sister.

"For true?" Arya asks.

"For true. Wynafryd told me about him when I was in White Harbor."

"Then why isn't he without a head? Or at the Wall, at least?"

"Because he is Tywin Lannister's mad dog, and the king is practiced at turning his gaze away from evil when it is convenient for him."

Arya's gaze narrows at the huge Lannister man as he rides by the stands to take his place. "Walder will beat him."

He is bigger than Walder, as impossible as that idea is to fathom for her, and he seems as stoic as his northern counterpart, but Walder's eyes are bright and blue and full of warmth. In this man's dark eyes, there is a frightening...absence. He turns to the stands and meets her gaze. She cannot maintain the stare and turns away, suddenly terrified; for herself, her sister and father, for all the men who came with them, even Walder, who has always seemed invincible. But she sits up straight and looks at her sister and says, "Yes. He will. Walder will beat him."

After Clegane drove the venerable Bronze Yohn Royce out of his saddle, Joffrey was up once again. He trotted past and gave a smile to Sansa as he did. She forced one back for him. He was facing his uncle this time, the handsome Renly Baratheon. The king's younger brother had forest green armor, topped with antlers gilded with gold. He gave a wave to the commons and received louder applause than did his nephew.

"I've never met Renly. Do you think he'll lose on purpose, too?"

"I do not," Sansa says. "He did not seem to have much affection for my betrothed."

Joffrey pulls down his visor and charges. Renly does the same, the lances explode, and the crown prince is launched backwards off of his horse. He lands with a violent clang as he hits the dirt on his arm and flips again awkwardly before coming to a stop on his stomach. There is a gasp from the crowd, and Sansa hears Cersei wail. Renly is off his horse and sprinting to his nephew's side as the Kingsguard make their way to him, as well.

Sansa grabs Arya's hand and cannot tell what emotions are roiling together in her thoughts. Relief? Hope? Pity? No, only confusion reigns. The prince stirs and then shrieks as he grasps at his left forearm. His uncle is trying to remove his armor, but Joffrey flinches away violently. "Don't touch me!" Then the Kingsguard are there, and the Queen. His uncle Jaime has ridden up, but not dismounted. They are congregated around him when the King walks up and parts them all. His son is still wailing and crying and clutching his arm.

King Robert leans down, and Sansa hears him bellow, "It's just a broken arm, lad! Nothing more than a fracture! Why, I suffered half a dozen such injuries by the time I was your age."

The Queen gives him an icy stare. "Your heir is in pain on account of your ponce of a brother, and that is what you have to say?"

"It is," he says. "He entered the lists. Such risks are involved. May he take this as a lesson and improve." With that, he walks away, back to the stands. "Bring me more wine!" he shouts at no one and everyone. "And clear the field for the next joust! Now!"

Arya scoffs. "A broken arm? What a baby."

A servant comes pushing a wheelbarrow onto the lists. Joffrey is unceremoniously placed in the barrow and the servant struggles as he pushes the crown prince off the field, wailing at every bump. The Queen trails behind with the Kingsguard. The first laugh comes from the Commons, and the second, but then it catches on and grows, and there are snickers even from the nobility behind them. Renly has a half smirk on his face as he talks to the Knight of Flowers. The Queen keeps her head high, but Joffrey's red rimmed eyes are poisonous as he looks to the Commons and the nobility. Despite her fear of him, despite her suspicions, Sansa cannot help but feel some pity for him, and it is then that his eyes meet hers. The anger and hatred in his look does not soften at all, and he turns away from her as the wheelbarrow carries him off the field.

The laughter dies down and the joust continues. "I...I should check on the prince," Sansa says.

"Why?" Arya asks. "That look he sent you wasn't inviting."

"Still. He is my betrothed, and it will be expected of me."

"Check tomorrow. They'll be setting the bone now and then it's milk of the poppy. He'll be knocked out for at least a day."

Sansa does not wish to go, but she would not have it said that she did not do her duty. "No, I must at least make an effort. Words will be whispered if I do not."

Arya shrugs. "Do you want me to come with you?"

She shakes her head as she rises and begins to move down the stands. "Stay. They are most likely treating him at his tent. If not, I'll find Hullen or one of the men to escort me."

Joffrey's tent is the largest in the field and has both the Baratheon Stag and the Lannister Lion flying above it. Around the entrance is a small crowd, mostly Lannisters and other sycophants it seems to Sansa. She waits behind them, unsure if she should push her way through when the Kingslayer spies her and waves her forward. "Everyone else may leave," he announces. "The Prince appreciates your concern, but his ass is much too bruised to abide any of your lips at the moment."

Sansa laughs as the others disperse, grumbling and obviously irritated at the Kingslayer's jest.

The Golden Knight, however, seems quite unperturbed. "Lady Sansa, so kind of you to visit."

"The prince is my betrothed. How could I be elsewhere?"

"As you say, my lady," he says, his smirk mirroring his sarcasm.

Opting not to acknowledge his tone, she asks, "How is the Prince?"

"He'll be fine. It was a small break, and clean. The Maester already set it and plastered it."

"May I see him?"

"You may, but he is delirious from the poppy, so don't expect much in the way of conversation." He pulls open the inner tent flap and gestures her in.

Sansa curtsies. "Thank you, Ser Jaime," she says as sweetly as she can before stepping into the dim light.

It takes her eyes a moment to adjust. Joffrey is on the cot, arm plastered, eyes closed, and he is softly moaning. The Queen wipes his brow with a damp cloth. They are the only two in the room at present. "Your Grace," Sansa says, curtsying. "I came to see how Joffrey was faring."

"Did you? Why?" She asks, keeping her eyes on her nigh unconscious son.

"He is my betrothed," Sansa answers, uncertain as to the Queen's intent.

"And it is your duty."

"Yes, Your Grace."

She turns to her. "You have no affection at all for my son, do you?"

Sansa is taken aback by the boldness of the question. "Your Grace?"

"It is an easy question, girl. Do you care for my son or do you not?"

Careful here, Sansa. "I am afraid I do not know your son very well, Your Grace."

The Queen laughs, but it sounds bitter and harsh to Sansa. "A clever way to say that you do not."

Thinking of nothing to say to that, Sansa only replies, "As you say, Your Grace."

The Queen rises and walks over to her. "As I say. And if I say that you are a simple, savage girl not worthy of my son's meagerest attention? What would you say to that?"

She can feel her heart pounding, but she manages to keep the tremble out of her voice when she replies, "I would say that I hope to convince you otherwise, Your Grace."

"As you hope to convince Joff that you care for him?"

"I do not hope to convince the prince of anything. I will come to care for him as I come to know him or I will not. As he will for me. Or not."

"Or not? Joff cares nothing for you. You are a heathen slut with a pretty face, a pair of tits, and a warm, wet hole."

Sansa is aghast at the Queen's vulgar insult, but it does not make her fear. Instead, it makes her angry. "None of which he can have until we are wed."

Cersei grips the back of Sansa's hair and pulls her face close. "Where do you think you are, girl? Winterfell? Your father has no real power here. Joff can have you whenever he wishes, and then cast you aside as he would any whore, so you and your father and your disgusting wolves can slink back to the North and be forgotten."

She is terrified. Terrified of us, of father and his influence over the king. The thought gives her clarity, and instead of fighting back, she only says, loudly, "I would have you unhand me, Your Grace."

"You dare give me a command?" The Queen asks, her fury mounting, and her grip tightening even further.

Sansa cries out in pain, perhaps louder and more desperately than what is warranted, but it serves her purpose and brings the Kingslayer inside the flap.

"Cersei! What are you doing?"

"What is within my rights!" She screams. "I should have this girl beaten for her insolence!"

Sansa gives in to her pounding heart and her anxieties, and she starts trembling and the tears start falling. The Kingslayer considers her for a moment, and Sansa fears she miscalculated before Ser Jaime says, "She's terrified, Cersei. Let her go."

The Queen holds on for a moment longer before pushing Sansa away. Sansa stumbles and nearly falls, but the Kingslayer catches her in his arms. She quickly pulls away from him, and darts her eyes back and forth between the twins. The Queen's look is contemptuous, the Knight's is uncertain. Cersei turns from both of them and walks back to her son, who is oblivious to all that has transpired. Not looking at either of them, she says, "You may leave, Lady Sansa. I'll be certain to tell Joffrey that you did your duty."

Sansa wipes her eyes and curtsies. "Many thanks, Your Grace." The Kingslayer opens the flap for her, and she steps through. She can feel her heart pounding, but she controls her breathing like Syrio Forel told her and Arya in the second lesson she attended and makes her way back to the stands.

Upon her arrival, Arya eyes her shrewdly. "What happened?"

"Nothing I could not handle, Arya," she answers.

"Don't lie to me, Sansa. You've been crying. What happened?"

"I'm not lying. I handled the situation. And how do you know I've been crying?"

"Your face is flushed, your eyes are red, your cheeks look raw." She taps her cheek, just below her left eye. "The True Seeing. You can't fool me."

Sansa sighs and tells Arya the story.

"That bitch," Arya mutters under her breath. "I'll rig up a dungbucket over her chambers."

Sansa snorts a laugh. "No, that won't be necessary. She acted in a vile manner, but there is nothing to be gained from retaliation."

"Just tell father you wish to break your betrothal."

"The betrothal was the king's idea. He desires a union between our houses, so who is the most likely candidate if not me? Myrcella would be lovely, but Robb is wed, Rickon too young, and Bran...would not be considered. Nor would Jon. If not me and Joffrey, it would be you and Tommen."

Arya's face scrunches up. "Tom is a sweet boy, but that is not happening."

"Which is exactly why we need to be certain that father has sway enough over the king to deny him his desire and break the betrothal."

Arya is unconvinced. "The next bruise I see on you from any Lannister will receive an answer. Either from father or from me."

Anyone listening to their conversation would probably roll their eyes at the threat, but Sansa knows better. Arya is a petite girl, but she has developed an uncanny strength for someone so small from hours upon hours of training and riding, climbing and swimming. And she is quick as a cat. Jon named her the most agile sword in the castle. Arya was blushing and smiling for a whole day after that, it seemed. And just two weeks with Syrio has made her even more dangerous. Dangerous enough to confront someone bigger and stronger than her without any fear of losing. Someone like those thugs Boros or Meryn. If it comes down to it, Sansa realizes, she would go to father before she risked Arya doing something rash and foolhardy. Even if she only did it to protect her equally foolish older sister. She puts her arm around her sister's small shoulders and leans in to give her a peck on the cheek. She half-heartedly tries to squirm away, but Sansa holds her tighter and puts her head on her shoulder. "You are a wonderful sister. How did we ever not get along?"

"You were a twat," she says matter-of-factly, but then grins and gives her a side-eye.

Sansa is shocked for a moment, and then the laughter bursts out of her, and Arya joins in. Septa Mordane gives them a curious glance and tells them to act appropriately in front of the court.

"Yes, Septa," they both answer, but for the rest of the tournament, they giggle whenever they make eye contact.

When sunset comes, there are four riders left - Walder will face the Kingslayer and Ser Loras will face The Mountain. King Robert suspends the final matches until the morrow, and calls for the feast.

"Tyrell's a better rider than Clegane. By a longshot," Arya says as they make their way to the tables. "He's maybe the best rider in the field, but he's giving up an awful lot of weight to the Mountain."

Sansa remembers the giant man's hollow eyes, and the stab of fear returns in her belly, but she pushes it down and twines her fingers with her sister's. "It doesn't matter. Walder will beat whomever he faces."

"Aye," Arya says. "He's near as big as The Mountain, but sits a horse much better and is a better jouster."

"I can attest to that," Renly Baratheon says, catching up to them with the Knight of Flowers by his side. "It felt like an anvil dropped on me when he struck my shield."

"Lord Renly, Ser Loras," Sansa says. "You both rode wonderfully today."

Renly laughs. "Loras rode wonderfully. The men I unhorsed were nothing special."

"Including the prince?"

"Especially the prince," Arya answers for him, bringing his laughter out again.

"You are correct, Lady Arya," Loras says. "The Prince does not belong in this company. Perhaps one day, but not now."

Arya smirks, unclasping from Sansa and crossing her arms as she arches an eyebrow. "You saw The Hound throw the joust?"

Renly and Loras share a glance, and then look back at Arya. Renly's face is curious and playful, and his own brow is lifted a bit, as if he is appraising her sister. "All who knew what to look for did," Renly answers, "but, of course, no one says anything. It's just a lie that we all agree upon. I think my brother started getting well and truly drunk by that point."

A warrior as renowned as Robert Baratheon would certainly despise the idea of his son being given the victory instead of earning it. "Is that why you gave him your best effort? To appease your brother?" Sansa asks.

"My lady Sansa, my brother commanded me to give your betrothed my best effort."

"It needed to be done," Loras says.

"Aye," Arya adds. "It's just a broken arm. Rickon broke his arm when he was five and didn't cry as much."

Sansa nods. "I agree, Ser Loras. A lesson learned today is a mistake avoided tomorrow."

Lord Renly stops and eyes her for a moment before bowing and taking her hand. "Well said, Lady Sansa. Wisdom and beauty is an attractive combination in a woman, wouldn't you say, Loras?" He places a soft kiss on her knuckles.

Loras takes Arya's hand. Her sister gives him an uncertain look, but doesn't withdraw. "I would, Renly, but I think I prefer beauty and candor." He bows and brings Arya's hand to his lips. To her delight, her normally confident sister is caught wrongfooted. She blushes and shuffles a bit, unaware, of course, of how pretty she has become, or how that forest green dress that Sansa picked out for her fits her shape and color perfectly. She's practically beet red when Loras lets go of her hand, and she turns her face away to hide her reaction.

"I see your father waiting on you, my Ladies of Stark, so we will leave you to him but first…" He reaches into his tunic pocket and pulls out her favor that Joffrey left discarded on the tourney grounds.

Sansa blushes and takes the silk garment when Renly offers it. "Thank you, Lord Renly. You are a true knight."

"No thanks needed, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, but perhaps the promise of a dance from both of you for each of us would not be out of the question?"

"Of course, my lords," Sansa says, still beaming from her sister's embarrassment. "Arya?"

Arya turns back around, the flush still on her face. "O-of course, Lord Renly, Ser Loras."

Their father comes to them with a nod of thanks to Renly and Loras. "Come girls, the Queen and her children will not be attending the feast, so we will be at the royal table." Sansa thinks that is terribly unfair for Myrcella and Tom and wishes to plead their case to the King, but it is the Queen's prerogative, and it would not do to give the Lannister woman another reason to think ill of her.

"What about Walder and Jory and the men?" Arya asks.

"They will be at their own table toward the back of the pavilion. Do not worry, you will get to visit with them once the first few courses are served and the dancing has started."

The feast begins, and Sansa thinks it the most magical evening of her life, the incident in the tent and the rest of her troubles shelved for the night. When she was yet a girl, and still dreamed her silly dreams, it was moments and events like this that she would conjure in mind and in her talks with Jeyne and Beth. Handsome knights and lords, beautiful ladies, wonderful food, lively music, and stimulating conversation. Even the king, drunk as he is, seems to be in a jolly mood with the Lannisters nowhere to be seen. And when the handsome Ser Arys Oakheart, resplendent in his immaculate white armor, asks her for a dance, her mind floods with thoughts of songs and heroes and princesses, and she lets go of her worries and allows herself to be swept away by the evening. Charming Renly partners her next, and his stunningly handsome friend, Ser Loras, after that. Then it's Robar Royce, who she met at White Harbor a year past and thought wonderfully kind for such a renowned warrior.

Even Arya dances, to her delight - first with Ser Barristan Selmy, who asks her permission and then their father's, who gives it with a smile, and then with Walder, who is as graceful as any despite his size, and then with Ser Loras. Eventually, as she always does, her sister makes her way to the guard's table where she talks of the tourney, of horses and swords and how strange she finds Kings Landing and all southerners. Sansa makes it a point to dance with all of their men who attend, Walder and Harwin and the others there who can be coerced to the dance floor, including Walder's new squire, a tall, muscled young man near Robb's age with broad shoulders, a mop of dark curls, and wonderfully blue eyes. He tries to beg off claiming he does not know the steps, but Sansa insists and takes the lead. He proves to be a quick study, and by the end of their third dance, he does not seem to be as miserable as he did at the beginning. She returns him to the table to his relief and decides to sit with her sister and the men for a while to listen to their talk and laughter and be reminded of home. Her father comes to join them when the King is too far in his cups, and she sees the tight lines around his eyes begin to fade as he eases into their conversation, his laughs and smiles genuine, and his eyes warm.

"Lord Hand?" a voice says from over her shoulder as they all laugh at a story Fat Tom is telling. She turns and sees a boy near Arya's age if not a bit older. He is tall and thin with alluringly strange eyes of deep indigo, and shoulder length blonde hair framing a handsome, if pimpled, face.

"Yes, Ser…?"

"Oh, I'm not a knight, Lord Hand. I've been squiring for Lord Beric for three years now, and he says I'm tolerably close to knighthood though I'm just thirteen. He's soon to wed my aunt. Lord Beric, I mean. She is here with us for the Hand's...your tourney, but…" he looks about the pavilion, "I don't see her now. Or Lord Beric."

The entire table is smiling at the boy's awkwardness and the red flush that has been creeping up his neck and into his cheeks as he speaks.

"That is all very interesting, lad," her father says, "but I still do not know your name."

There are laughs around the table, and the boy joins in, though his is more of a half croak. His eyes, though, remain on her father's. "It's Edric, Lord Hand. Edric Dayne, though my family and friends all call me Ned. After you, my lord."

Her father's smile falters a bit, and for a moment, she thought she saw a shimmer in his eyes, but it passes, and he stands and takes the boy's hand in his. "Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Your father, Alyn, was a good man and true, and I am honored that he named his son after me. Will you sit with us?"

"I-I would not wish to intrude upon you and your family, Lord Hand."

"There is no intrusion, Lord Dayne," Sansa says. "Please sit and share bread and wine with us at our table so that perhaps soon you will call us friend, and we will also call you Ned."

He smiles, a genuine, beautiful thing that touches every part of his face, especially his wonderful eyes. "My thanks, my Lady..."

"Sansa," she answers, rising from her seat and moving to the other side of her sister. "And this is Arya." The boy bows to both of them and takes the vacated seat between her father and her sister. There is an awkward silence at first until Arya barges her way into it. "What's Dawn like? Have you held it?"

Everyone at the table perks up at the question. Dawn is the most revered blade in the Seven Kingdoms, of course this table of fighters would be interested. "No one but the Sword of the Morning is supposed to wield Dawn," Edric confesses sheepishly, "but I may have taken it down from it's mantle a time or two when I was younger and...swung it about the room." He laughs a bit and his cheeks turn red once again. "The last time I accidentally cut a chair in half. I was sent to squire with Lord Beric soon afterwards."

They all share a laugh at that, Arya's guffaws loud and infectious as ever, and soon she launches in on her many misadventures in Winterfell, the guards all adding details as she tells her stories. The Lord Dayne is laughing heartily at the raucous tales, his eyes big and wide and focused entirely on her sister. Sansa is so delighted she could twirl on the trestles. She had been waiting for so long for her sister to become, well, interested in such things as romance, and now she seems to be taken in by not one, but two chivalrous gentlemen in one night. She almost cannot wait to get back to the Tower, so she can giggle about boys with Arya for the first time ever. The thought makes her happy until memories of Jeyne giggling about Robb or Jon or Falmer flood her mind and her mood falters and her smile is gone. She looks about the table, and they are all still laughing and jesting, and even her father looks happy as he stares fondly at the young Dayne and his daughter swapping funny stories.

"Ned?" Her father and Edric turn first, then the rest of them. The woman is stunning. She is tall, elegant, voluptuous even in a modest gown, with a heart shaped face framed by long sable hair streaked with a sliver of blonde so pale it may have been white. And the same eyes as her nephews. She is the most beautiful woman Sansa has ever seen. A redheaded lord with a sigil of lightning on his tunic is her escort, Lord Beric, Sansa presumes, but all the men's eyes are on her. All except Jory and Walder, who are looking at her father. She turns. While all the other men look at the woman with something like admiration or desire, all she sees in her father's eyes is sorrow.

"Aunt Allyria," Ned says happily and rises to greet his kin and his warden. He turns back to the table. "Lord Stark, this is my aunt, Allyria Dayne, and her betrothed and my mentor, Lord Beric Dondarrion.

"Lord Beric," her father says, rising to greet him and extending his hand. "An honor to meet you."

"Lord Hand, the honor is mine," he replies, taking her father's proffered hand.

He nods and then pivots to face the lady and bows. "Lady Allyria."

She curtsies. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Hand."

Her father rises. "We have met before, though I do not think you'd remember."

"I believe I do," she says, smiling warmly. "If only pieces, anyway. When I saw dearest Ned here speaking with you, I hoped to come over and ask you to fill in those memories for me."

Her father says nothing for a moment, and when he does finally open his mouth to speak, the king's booming voice cuts through the clamor and din of the pavilion. "That is right! I will fight in the melee tomorrow! With my warhammer in hand, there is not a man in the seven kingdoms who can stand before me!" The hall erupts in cheers and hoots, and the King revels in it.

"By the gods," her father mumbles. "Lord Beric, Lord Edric, Lady Allyria. Please stay as guests of mine tonight in the Tower of the Hand. Come tomorrow, we will break our fast in my solar, and I will be happy to fill in any gaps." He turns to Sansa and then Arya. "Girls, not too late now. Walder, Jory, see that they are returned to their rooms at a reasonable hour." With that, he walks off determinedly towards the king. She sees Lord Renly and Ser Barristan fall in line behind him, sees them speak, sees the king grow redder and redder before he finally throws his hands up and stalks off towards the Red Keep, Ser Arys and Ser Mandon trailing him. They all look to one another, her father says something and walks in the direction of the Tower of the Hand, and they fall in behind him.

They were all staring at the scene. Sansa looks to Arya and then to Lord Dayne. "Ned," she says, and the boy meets her eyes. "Would you like to dance?"

"Of-of course, Lady Sansa," he says.

Arya grabs Walder's squire by the hand. "Come on, you big oaf. You danced with my sister, now it's my turn." The men laugh, and all the tension of the previous moments are relieved.

Sansa hears Lord Beric jokingly apologize to Walder for not giving him a harder tilt during the tourney, and another laugh is shared before she and Ned reach the dance floor, Arya and the young squire beside them. At the next dance, she trades partners with Arya, letting Ned and her sister take a turn as she dances with Walder's squire for the fourth time.

The rest of the evening passes in similar fashion, with laughing and dancing and with Lord Beric and the Daynes now firmly entrenched as their friends in Kings Landing. Others stop by their table and converse for a bit, knights like Ser Robar and Ser Patrek Mallister and Lord Bryce Caron, and ladies like Ysilla Royce, Robar's sister, and Bethany Blackwood. Arya makes them laugh with her teasing forwardness, and Sansa makes them feel welcome with her manners and charm.

Unfortunately, the night ends, and they make their way back to the Tower of the Hand. Arya is walking ahead with Ned, her arms gesticulating everywhere as she tells another story to the boy's delightful laughter. Sansa is arm in arm with Lady Allyria, who is giggling with her about the young men and boys of the court and about her upcoming marriage. Behind her is Walder and his squire, both silent and vigilant in their escort duty.

"Every untethered young maid in the Seven Kingdoms dreams of wedding the prince," Allyria whispers, "yet you are the one who caught him."

Sansa gives her a sidelong glance and decides quickly that she can be honest with this girl. To a degree, anyway. "The King caught us both, I think."

"Are you unhappy with your betrothal?"

"He is handsome. Perhaps even beautiful like his mother and her twin."

"But?"

"But," Sansa whispers, offering nothing more.

Lady Dayne looks at her for a long moment. Her face is kind but there is worry there, as well. "Smart. I've heard about the dangers of court from my father and brother, who blamed much of my brother's and sister's ruin on Aerys and his sycophants. I have also heard tell of dark rumors of this Lannister court and of the Prince. Best to keep things close, as you have done, Lady Sansa. Take care, though. With dozens of highborn girls envious of your position, it would not take much for a rumor to find purchase in this rotten soil, and for the fruit of such to find its way to the Queen or the Prince.

"Aye, Lady Allyria," Sansa says, letting her northern brogue slip through as she accosts herself for her stupidity. Jeyne's death was proof that they care nothing for the lives of those they deem lesser. And while she may be protected from Joffrey's cruelty and the Queen's wroth, anyone else in their household could be a target. "Your advice is...well received."

The older woman pats her hand. "I am glad for that. And for meeting you and your family. I do hope we can be friends." She nods at Ned and Arya, her sister laughing and jesting and skipping and the boy following along like a puppy.

Sansa smiles. "I believe we already are, Allyria."

At the Tower, she and Arya say their good nights to the Daynes and to Lord Beric as Walder goes to show them the guest rooms in the Tower of the Hand.

They enter their room, and the wolves are waiting for them. Nymeria jumps on Arya, who collapses with her wolf and laughs, while Lady only patters up to Sansa and licks her hand. Jory must have brought them in before the feast was over because they still smell like the kennels.

"Good girl," Sansa says, unwrapping a steak she pulled from the feast. "Lady wolfs it down quickly." She looks over and sees Arya and Nymeria both staring at her. She purses her lips, then produces another piece of meat from her bundle and hands it to Arya, who promptly feeds it to her grateful wolf.

As they are getting dressed for bed, Arya says, "Gendry is the King's bastard son."

Sansa is stunned to silence for a moment. "Gendry? Walder's squire?"

"Yeah. I thought he was Renly's little brother when I first saw him in the training yard. He was a blacksmith's apprentice the last ten years. Father took him on to be his blacksmith in Kings Landing, and then Walder took him as squire to teach him how to fight. He's not any good now, but he will be. He's strong as a bull, stronger than any of our men beside Walder, and he's only seventeen. And I heard Walder tell Jory that he looks just like the King did when he killed Rhaegar on the Trident." Arya swings an imaginary warhammer to emphasize the point.

"Arya Underfoot strikes again. I see I chose my Master of Whispers wisely."

She gives her a wide, toothy grin and taps her cheekbone just below the eye. "The true seeing."

Sansa rolls her eyes but still smiles at her sister. "He seems like a good man. Shy, but a good man. You seem to like him well enough."

"I do," she says. "He's a bastard like Jon, and he's nice, and he's an incredible smith. He's got this bullhead helmet he made for himself, and an entire set of armor, and a sword and a warhammer. He showed them to me. I asked if he'd make me some armor. He got stupid for a moment before I set him right. Then he said yes."

Sansa laughs. "Set him right? Arya, you can't threaten someone into doing something for you."

Her sister looks aghast. "I didn't threaten him! I only told him that I was a warrior and warriors need armor."

"And then?"

Arya rolls her eyes. "And then I pulled out Needle. I had to show him I was a warrior, didn't I?"

Sansa shakes her head. "What do you think of the Daynes?"

"I like them," she returns, yawning, and climbing into bed with Nymeria. "Ned is fun. He said he'd go riding with us when we take Nym and Lady outside the city, and he said he'll spar with me, as well, which is good because I want to practice what I've learned with Syrio against a real opponent."

"What do you think of Lady Allyria?"

"She is the prettiest woman I've ever seen."

"She is," Sansa says, remembering stories about her sister Ashara and brother Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, and their history with her father. "I wonder what they will speak of tomorrow."

Arya blows out her candle and pulls the blankets over her. "About father and his fight with Ser Arthur, probably." She sits up. "That's such a strange story. Ser Arthur was the best sword in the kingdoms, and father beat him."

Sansa frowns. She had never given the story much thought. "Father was beaten easily enough by Yohn Royce when he visited years ago."

"Right. How did he beat Ser Arthur?"

Sansa gives a giggle. "Perhaps you should ask Ned after father tells them tomorrow."

"Why would I ask him?" She asks.

"Because he likes you. So he won't be able to say no."

"What? Nuh-uh."

"Arya, he followed you around like a puppy half the night."

Her sister is beet red. "Well, practically all the knights in the Hall followed you around."

"They're just trying to ingratiate themselves with their future queen."

"And you hated every second of it, didn't you?" Arya asks, grinning.

Sansa laughs. "No. No, it was a wonderful night."

Arya's grin disappears. "Because Joffrey and his stupid mother weren't there."

Joffrey and his mother. She thinks of Cersei's crazed eyes in the tent, and then on the knowledge that she will need to visit Joffrey tomorrow for appearances sake, and the fear and anxiety returns for a moment before Lady climbs up in the bed with her and licks her hand. The fear lessens and then disappears entirely as she strokes the wolf's soft fur, and she remembers that Cersei and Joffrey fear her and her family perhaps more than she does them, and she feels strong and whole, every bit a Stark of Winterfell. "Yes, they are stupid, aren't they?" she says, more to herself, though Arya answers.

"They are," her sister concurs. "Now blow out your candle so I can sleep."

"Of course, little sister," she answers, leaning over Lady and casting them into darkness with a soft blow.

9-II

Sam's nightly excursions to the Wintertown brothel yielded fruit after less than a week. Stark's men said nothing, a testament to their loyalty and the lad's ability to inspire. The whores, however, were looser with their tongues, to both Sam and Tyrion's relief.

"Come, Sam. Quickly," Tyrion whispers. The boy told him as soon as he returned from the whorehouse the previous night. Assassins attacked the castle, set fire everywhere, tried to kill Lord Robb, or Lady Catelyn, or the crippled Lord Bran. Commonfolk calumny, to be sure, but given all the other happenings, it was clear what had happened. Clearer still to see what it meant for him and his men, especially after the arrival of the Steward Vayon Poole and the bones of his daughter Jeyne and the guardsman Falmer.

The boy has all their belongings packed and they are at the stables before even a hint of dawn has crested. "Hurry up, now, Sam," Tyrion says in a loud whisper, when his fat squire stops at the door of the stables.

"L-l-lord Tyrion," the boy stammers.

He walks around the boy's bulk and his heart sinks. His two men-at-arms that he had sent down to ready their mounts are both unconscious on the ground, their swords several paces away, and a monstrous direwolf pacing next to them. Lord Robb is planted on an overturned bucket, the greatsword Ice slung across his back, and is staring at Tyrion's horse and sketching something on a parchment with the piece of shaved coal in his hand. He looks more savage than lord this morning, his hair unkempt, his beard uncombed, stripped to the waist, baring his massive arms and chest.

"This is incredible, Tyrion," the lad says.

The boy is bigger than his father, broader even than Jaime if not quite as tall. He was seventeen, but he was no boy. He was a killer. Moreso than the wolf next to him. "Yes, it is a magnificent horse, Lord Stark. My father spares no expense for his family, even the ones he hates."

"Funny," he replies, without laughing, his eyes still moving from parchment to horse and back again, his hand still sketching. "But I think your father had naught to do with your saddle."

My saddle? The boy, Brandon, of course. Tyrion chastises himself for not thinking of it as a gift when he arrived. "Ah, yes. That is my own design."

"Genius," he whispers, still sketching. "I would like you to stay and make one for my brother."

"My men?"

Robb pauses his sketching to glance at them. "They drew their swords against me, breaking guest right. Be glad I didn't kill them." He continues drawing. "My brother?"

"Of course I will help the boy. Though what works for me won't exactly work for him. It will have to be tailored for his body, his abilities. I can go over the design with Maester Luwin and your Master of Horse before we leave today."

"Leave, my lord?"

"Yes. We will be expected back in Kings Landing soon enough. Dwarves, despite their stature, do tend to get noticed. Which makes our absence conspicuous, as well."

"Well," he says, jumping up so quickly that both he and Sam flinch. "We will certainly miss your wit, my lord." He walks over, long quick steps that puts him before them in a blink. Sam stumbles behind him, but Tyrion makes it a point to stand his ground. The lad extends a hand. Tyrion takes it as naturally as he can. "You are different, Lannister. There is...something worthwhile in you." Meaning there isn't much worthwhile in other Lannisters. Not that he didn't have a point regarding his sister and Joffrey, but he still has to swallow a retort. It helps that Stark does not squeeze his hand or twist or do any of the things that bigger men have done to him over the years. Letting go, the boy reaches over and claps Sam on the shoulder. "Same for your large friend." Smiling, he steps away from them and gives a whistle. The massive wolf bounds past them in a blur and is out of the stables.

Tyrion returns the smile. He is almost certain that he knows where the boy is taking this, but he would make him say it. "My thanks for your hospitality, Lord Stark. You have been a most gracious host."

"We are not as refined as you Southerners, but we do attend to laws of hospitality. Within these Walls, you are under my care and protection."

"And outside these walls?" Tyrion asks, pushing the conversation to its inevitable conclusion.

Robb looks to the sky and breathes in the crisp dawn air. "Winter is coming. With it comes desperate men...as young Jeyne Poole and Falmer discovered."

Three tragedies had befallen Winterfell since the King and his court stepped foot inside the castle. How many heads would be on spikes if anything of this nature had occurred at The Rock? "Sam," Tyrion says, walking to the horses and grabbing his pack. "Collect Jaspar and Cliven and return to your rooms. My business in Winterfell is not yet concluded."

"Yes, L-lord Tyrion," the boy stammers out before shaking the men to little more than groans.

"Try a bucket of water," he says before walking out of the stables and past Lord Stark.

"The kitchens are open," Lord Stark calls after him. "Fresh bread, bacon, eggs, that black beer you enjoy."

"Thank you, my lord," Tyrion calls out over his shoulder, not deigning to turn. This was nicer than any prison, but they were still prisoners. He would have to think of a way around this. Preferably one that did not end with any deaths. Especially his own. He is headed back to his room, but the smells from the kitchen stop him, and he mutters a curse for Stark under his breath. Grabbing a passing servant, he tells her to bring a tray of bread, bacon, eggs, and that black beer up to him before trudging up the stairs to his room. Opening the door, he finds another surprise waiting for him. Wylla Manderly is sitting in a chair across a small table adorned with a cyvasse board. She is wearing the low cut dress from the first night he arrived. "Does no one sleep past dawn in this castle?" he asks.

"I don't," she replies.

He nods and rubs the bridge of his nose. "My lady, how may I be of service?"

"Play me again."

"Now?"

"Our subterfuge has been unmasked. No more pretending for either of us. I would play again. This time with no other agendas between us."

"Oh, I'm sure there are still quite a few. Else why wear that dress again?"

"I am sixteen. Not a beauty, but pretty enough. My tits are my best feature, and I enjoy the attention they draw from men and women. I...like feeling desired. Or envied. Now play."

"Ah, truth. Such a rare thing in this castle," Tyrion responds. He looks her up and down, looks her in the eyes. She does not flinch. Hardly blinks. There is steel there, but also something...softer. "Alright, my lady, I will play, but only for stakes."

"Name your wager."

"Truth."

"Win, and I will truthfully answer any question you put to me."

"Agreed." An hour later, with a bellyful of breakfast and beer and a grin on his face, he takes her king for the second time.

She stands up silently and paces to the door and back before stomping her foot on the stone floor. "You are the most infuriating man I've ever met!" she says before plopping herself back down in the chair and helping herself to the rest of his bacon. "I know all the strategies and the odds. I've beaten my grandfather! How are you toying with me?"

Tyrion's grin remains on his face, and he finds that he is actually enjoying this moment with the young lady. "My lady, you are a strong adversary, but your problem is that you play the board when you need to play the opponent."

"We've played only four times. Your strategy changes from game to game." She absently bites her lip. "Sometimes from move to move it seems."

"Would you like to know what I've learned of you in the course of the four games we've played?" She only glares at him, so Tyrion continues. "I've learned that you are very smart, perhaps even brilliant, that you are well read, and versed in strategy and tactics." She shifts a bit and her face softens at the compliments. "I've also learned that you are impatient, overconfident in your intellect to the point of arrogance, not nearly as subtle as you believe, your eyes get bigger when you are laying a trap, and that you are naive as only those who have not faced true hardship can be."

She blinks. Then blinks again. Then her brows draw down in introspection. "Thank you for the lesson, Lord Tyrion," she says after a moment. "Will you ask your questions, now?"

He nods. "What exactly happened with the Library Tower? With Lord Bran?"

"An assassin. Cut throat, really, from what I gathered. Not a proper assassin. He set the fire as a distraction and then thought to find young Lord Bran alone in his room. He found Lady Catelyn instead, still tending to him in her grief."

Fear grips Tyrion. He had guessed as much, but confirmation shook him. Two attempts on a child's life, and they failed both times. Leaving poor Tyrion alone in the wolf's den. Gods be good, could they have been so foolish? More importantly, what did he see or hear in that broken tower that is worth his life? He thinks he knows the answer to that, but pushes it away. He can feel a headache coming and wants to rub his temples, but instead gets up and pours himself a glass of wine. Perhaps he can drink it away. He points to another glass and raises his eyebrow at her. She nods. He pours another and brings her the cup before sitting back down. "Lady Stark fought him off?"

"Lady Val was bringing her tea and found them. She jabbed a spoon in the man's eye before Bran's wolf finished him off." Lady Wylla has a small smile on her face, but her eyes are distant, as if she is imagining the scene in her head.

"You admire her?"

"Lady Val? I do. Do you not?"

"Oh, I do. She was a wildling, and now she will be the Lady of Winterfell. A social climb worthy of song, I think."

Wylla's eyes narrow a bit. "You think her disingenuous?"

This is important to her. He keeps his features even, keeps his eyes on hers. "I do not," he says, and though he had not given it much thought, it tastes like the truth. "She loves Lord Robb, that is obvious, and he is besotted with her. But the truth about her cannot be obscured or brushed aside. If this was the South, Robb would most likely be disinherited for wedding such a girl."

"This is not the South."

"No, for better and worse, but lords are lords on either side of the Neck, and their pride will have them wonder why a wildling instead of their own daughter is the Lady of Winterfell, and their minds will conjure the easiest explanation; that a beautiful girl from their oldest enemy seduced a scared boy and now controls him and the North. Dynasties crumble in such ways. Or have you never wondered how history may have gone for the Targaryens if the Prince of Dragonflies did not wed Jenny of Oldstones?"

"I wonder how it would have gone for them if the King had kept Duncan as his heir despite him marrying Jenny of Oldstones."

Tyrion is amused, and shows it with a smile. "Fair point. But most likely the rebellion would have occurred sooner."

"Why?" she asks. "The Targaryens wed brother to sister, wed more than one woman. What would that have been but one more quirk?"

"The Dragon did those things because the Dragon was above the opinions of lesser beasts - a notion that carries weight when there are actual dragons roaming about. But the monsters were dead by this point. What then gave them their power?"

She looks down, her eyes unfocus a bit. "Perception."

"Perception," Tyrion agrees. "Kneeling before a queen of the line of Valyria, sister to the king or not, is more tolerable to every single noble in Westeros than kneeling before a common girl."

Wylla tilts her head. "I see your point, but the situations are different. The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years, and they never had dragons."

What did they have? She wants him to ask that question. He will not. Partly to vex the girl, partly because he knows that the answer will be some nonsense about honor. As if they were not holding him prisoner, threatening his life.

He finishes his wine, drawing the silence out. Letting the question hang there while he goes and fetches the pitcher, brings it back to the table, and then pours himself another. "Why are you here, my lady?

Her annoyance isn't as plain as before. She is taking his lessons to heart. "My liege asked me here."

This is how it will be now? Tyrion nearly groans. "To what end?"

She shrugs. "To charm you. To give you a reason to stay of your own volition."

"An unwitting prisoner."

"As you say."

He nods. "You misunderstood my question. Why are you in my chambers?" He has guessed at the truth, certain that he has it correct, but he wants to know if she will lie. Somewhat surprisingly, she does not.

"My lord told me that you had discerned our purpose. He told me to be here this morning. To wait for you. And to truthfully answer any question you ask."

"Why do you think he chose you to do this? He could have done so in the stables."

She leans over, giving him a good look at the tops of her breasts, and meets his eyes and gives him such a wicked grin that Tyrion feels his cock shift. "Who else? He wanted me to become your confidante in the castle. Perhaps even still ensnare you with my charms."

Clever. The lad has a decent mind for this, but the error was choosing you, poor girl. Better if he had chosen a man who has a fondness for dice. "Any other reasons?"

She stands and drinks her wine in two gulps. "I wanted to play you again."

"Will you wish to play again in the future?"

"I will," she says as she walks to the door. "You are brilliant. I would be brilliant, as well."

"Your company will be welcome." She smiles at him, genuine, Tyrion thinks, and moves to open the door. "One more question before you leave, my lady?

"Yes?"

"What have you learned of me so far?"

She shrugs, causing the dress to fall off her shoulder, revealing more of her fair skin, more of her breasts. "You didn't desire me before this morning. Not truly." He sees the blush climbing up her neck and into her cheeks. "You do now." With that, she drops into a curtsy and walks out of his chambers.

Tyrion blinks. Then blinks again. Then takes another drink.

9-III

(Warning: Graphic content in this section)

"Lady Sansa," Lord Baelish says, stopping her in the halls of the Red Keep. "Will you be watching the rest of the tourney today?"

"I will be my lord, unless my visit with the prince proves overlong."

"How could it not, given the depth of your love?" he says, with a rakish smile. "I am certain that the very presence of such beauty can do nothing but bolster his spirits and restore his strength."

"Thank you for your words, Lord Baelish," she says, uncertain about this man and his compliment. "But I must be going."

"Then I shall not keep you." He takes her hand and bows, brushing his lips against her knuckles. She curtsies in response and continues on her way. Rounding the corner, she sees The Hound at the Prince's door.

"Lady Sansa," the huge man says in his deep rasp. "He is awake, but still on the poppy. You may want to come back…"

"Dog!" Yells Joffrey from behind the door. "Dog! Who is that?"

Clegane opens the door. "It is the Lady Sansa, daughter of The Hand."

"Ah! My betrothed. Come in," he says. The Hound's eyes are fixed on hers and look alert as she passes by. The door closes behind her.

It is darker than the hall, so it takes her eyes a moment to adjust. The gold drapes are pulled back, but the red curtains are not, so the sunlight filters in through the fabric, leaving a dim, crimson hue over the room. Joffrey is still in the bed, obviously naked except for the tangled sheets that only just cover his sex and the tops of his legs. His left forearm is in plaster, a sling is on the floor with the rest of his clothes. Beside him is a naked girl, rolled over, unmoving. He follows her gaze to the girl. "A whore," he says. "Or perhaps a servant's daughter. I misremember." He leans over the edge of the bed and reaches underneath. He produces a leather strap, smiles at Sansa, and without breaking her gaze, brings the leather down violently across the girl's exposed ribs and belly.

"Aaagghhhh!" She screams, scrambling up and away from the prince.

"Are you a whore?" the prince asks calmly. His eyes move lazily between the girl and Sansa. "The Grand Maester gave me milk of the poppy for my pain, and I fear it has addled my memory."

Tears are streaming down the girl's cheeks, and Sansa sees the red welt where the belt hit, sees small pinpricks of blood popping up on her skin. "Y-Yes, my prince," she stammers out.

Joffrey smiles in triumph. "First guess! My wits are not addled after all." He beckons the girl closer, and though shaking, she returns to the bed. Joffrey pulls her to him and examines the wound his belt made. "My love," he says to Sansa. "This girl is in pain." He looks around the room slowly, without focus. "There is a bowl somewhere in this room with some leftover milk of the poppy. Pycelle thought to take it away, but I commanded that he leave it in case I need more." He goes still and just stares for several moments. His gaze is fixed in her direction, but he is not looking at her.

"Prince Joffrey?" she asks.

He blinks, his eyes focus on her. "The bowl, my lady?"

Sansa goes to the table closest to the hearth and finds the bowl. A pale residue lines the bottom. She walks it to the Prince and offers it to him.

"In my lap," he says, putting the belt over his neck. As she lays the bowl down, his hand darts up and grabs her chin before she can pull away. His grip is painful, his fingers dig deep into ther skin as he holds her in place. Leaning forward, he takes a deep breath, his nose running against her cheek. Sansa's hand starts drifting toward her dagger, fingers gently pulling her dress up to reach it, but then his hold on her relaxes, and she flinches away, nearly backing to the door. He pays her no attention, his eyes on the bowl. His finger traces the rim for a moment before he runs it over the bottom and pulls out a glob of milk. "Open your mouth," he tells the girl. She complies and he gives her his finger to suck. She latches on to it, and then again when he gives her a second helping. He pulls his finger out and kisses the girl, tongue in her mouth, and Sansa sees his sex stiffen and rise, the sheet falling away as it does. He pulls away and the girl takes him in her mouth.

He tilts his head back and smiles. "I gave her pain. I took it away. Soon I will give her pleasure. She is mine to do with as I please. As a king, all are mine to do with as I please."

But you are not king. "As you say, my prince," Sansa replies.

"Did you laugh at my fall yesterday, my lady? Your sister did. I saw her."

"No, my prince."

"She did," he insists, but in a calm voice. "I saw her. For that, I think I will have her when I am king. Have her in front of the entire court. Faster," he says to the girl, and she complies, her head bobbing up and down. "She won't laugh then."

Sansa can feel her heart racing though it is no longer fear that fuels it but anger. He is naught but a scared, spoiled, cruel boy, and if he ever comes for her or her sister or any in her family, she will geld him with her dagger, consequences be damned.

"I killed a man last night. Had him brought here before me. He used a wheelbarrow to carry a king. My quarrel caught him in the throat. His blood spilled not far from where you are now."

He wants her to look, but Sansa will not. She keeps her eyes on him, giving no effort to keep the anger off her face.

"There used to be a Myrish carpet there," he says with a lazy laugh. He grabs his strap from around his neck, folds it over, and brings it down hard on the girl's back and ass, but she does not stop. He does it again, and grabs her hair as he groans and thrusts up into her mouth once, twice, and a third time before pushing her off him and falling back against the headboard.

"They all laughed at me. But I saw them. Saw them all. I was told that you laughed when you danced with my uncle," he says, swirling his finger in the poppy bowl and then licking the substance off. "Dancing and laughing with my pillowbiter of an Uncle and his plaything, Loras. Did they both have you last night? I bet they did. One in that cunt you guard so well from me, and one in that tight ass."

She had enough. "I danced with your uncle, and I danced with Ser Loras, and I danced with lords and with common guards in my father's service. I laughed and drank and was happy, and I spared not a thought for you the entire night. Because vain, cruel, cowardly boys are not worth my thoughts nor my time. This betrothal is ended. I reject you, Prince Joffrey," she finishes, and bangs on the door.

The Hound swings it open just as Joffrey screams, "Dog! Beat her, Dog! She has dishonored me with her words!"

Sansa stands her ground. "You deserve a better master than him, Ser Sandor," she says.

"I'm no knight, girl," he growls in his saw-on-stone voice, but then he moves out of the doorway. As she walks away, she can hear the man say, "Prince Joffrey, that milk-of-the-poppy has turned your brains to shit." Her smile stays on her face all the way to the tourney grounds.

9-IV

"How was the visit to Joffrey?" Arya asks as soon as she sits.

"Awful. He is wrong and vile and will never be my husband."

Arya raises an eyebrow then leans in to whisper, "Are we breaking the betrothal?"

"No need to whisper," she says, getting her father's attention. "Joffrey had a prostitute in the bed with him when I visited. He beat her and had her...service him while I was in the room. He then accused me of improper behaviour at the feast last night." Arya looks at her father. His face is hard and unforgiving, his lord's face. "Father," Sansa continues, eyes just as determined, "I will not wed him."

He stands. "No, you will not." He looks about him and spots the Daynes, just now making their way to the stands, and beckons them to him. "Lord Dayne, Lady Allyria, I have urgent business with the king. Would you mind accompanying my daughters while I am away?"

Ned bows. "It would be my honor, Lord Hand."

"And my delight," says his sister.

With that, their father walks up the stands to the King. He pulls him aside, away from Myrcella and Tom. The Queen, thankfully, is absent. Lord Renly comes over. All three have grim looks on their faces, but the King and their father are the only ones who come down. "Start this thing without me, Renly. And watch over the children. Baelish, you're with me." He stops at their bench, and his bloodshot eyes are weary as he gazes upon Sansa. "There are no words for my son's behaviour. All I can ask is forgiveness in his stead."

Sansa stands and curtsies deeply before the King. "Your Grace, your words leave me both grateful and humbled. For not only are they the words of the King, but they are the words of my father's friend and brother, and I know they were spoken in truth and love."

He smiles, and for a moment it touches his eyes. "Rise, girl. You would have made a wonderful Queen, I think. Better than what my son deserves." He turns to his brother. "Renly! The tourney is yours!"

The stands are abuzz with whispers. Arya wonders how quickly the word will spread that the betrothal is broken on account of Joffrey's awfulness. She wonders what truths will get twisted and only hopes her sister is spared the worst of it.

"Lady Sansa? Lady Arya?" It's Lord Renly, smiling his charming smile and looking so much like a less grumpy Gendry. "Would you and Lord Dayne and Lady Allyria like to sit with the Royal Family? I know my niece and nephew would be delighted with your company."

"Of course, Lord Renly," Sansa replies.

Arya sees Myrcella clap and wave when they start to make their way up, and she waves back. Myrcella is such a bright spirit, kind and thoughtful, a perfect lady like Sansa, but she nearly had Arya swallowing her pride when they raced on the Trident. The girl rides like the wind and could be a great friend if her mother would ever let her do anything. Perhaps the king will let them come with us when we take the wolves out. No harm in asking, and it is possible Joffrey's ill behaviour will convince the king to get his kids away from his bitch of a wife.

"Lady Allyria," she hears Renly say after the Daynes are introduced, and Ned has bowed in turn to everyone. "Where is Beric this morning?"

"He is to be in the melee," Lady Allyria tells them. "We were with him in his tent, that is why we arrived so late."

Ned sits, and Sansa looks at her and then looks tot he empty seat next to the Lord of Starfall. Arya, annoyed with her sister, looks for another chair. Myrcella moves over to offer her the one between herself and Tom. When she sits she ruffles Tom's hair like she does with Rickon and Bran. Bran hates it when she tries to do it to him now, thinking himself nearly a man grown. Tom is just a year younger than her brother, but he blushes and giggles when she does it to him. Myrcella smiles sweetly at the interaction. "Will you be taking your direwolves out for a run any time soon, Arya?"

"Looking for a rematch?"

The Princess's blush tells her she is close to the mark. "I would, though I do not believe Mother would approve. She has kept us close since the Trident, and Joffrey's injury has only made it worse."

"So ask your father," Arya says with a shrug. "He's the king, and he probably likes the idea of you riding. I bet he doesn't even know how good you are."

She looks down at her hands. "He does not. My Uncle Jaime teaches us when he can. And Ser Arys, our Kingsguard." She nods in the direction of the young white knight standing apart from them.

"You should tell him. Better yet, show him how good you are. Our father loves hearing about all the things we get into."

She hesitates for a moment. "Your family is different. Tom and I have never really been close to our father. Mother…"

"No," Arya interjects, waving away whatever argument the princess was about to make. "You're twelve, Myrcella. Nearly a woman grown. Be who you want to be, not who your mother tells you to be. Joffrey is a shit, so your father is desperate for a child to be proud of. He doesn't see you because you are a girl? Then make him see you."

The princess meets her eyes for a moment, and then looks down at her hands again. "You've given me much to think on, Arya."

"Well, while you're thinking, make plans for you and Tom to go riding with us tomorrow. We're taking Nymeria and Lady for a run."

Myrcella looks back up and smiles her soft, bright smile. "I will."

Arya gives the girl her own easy smile and then turns her eyes to the tourney as Renly calls for a start.

The first two are Walder and the Kingslayer. Walder is stone still, while Lannister is joking with his squire. The joust begins and both thunder down the lists. There is a great crash as both lances explode, but neither rider was moved. "Both of them shifted in their saddles," Arya says. "Gendry told me that Walder has been watching every joust of Jaime Lannister's since the tournament began."

"Smart," Renly says. "He's a one of the finest horseman and still one of the premier lances in the Seven Kingdoms. And still arrogant enough not to treat your giant Northman with the same respect."

"Enough of that now," Myrcella says, but she is grinning widely at Renly. "Else I will have to move you down my list of favorite uncles."

"You would wound me so?" He asks her, hand to his heart.

"If I must," she replies.

"Once again, beauty strikes a blow where blade could never land," he sighs, and Myrcella and Sansa laugh.

Walder and Lannister go again and again and again, and then once more, their lances breaking every time. The crowd is on their feet at the display of skill and power from both men. On the sixth joust, Walder manages to hit the Kingslayer's shield square, and Ser Jaime is falling backwards. His hand catches the pommel of his saddle, and he twists and is almost able to save himself, but in the end, he has to let go, and, in a deft display of skill and balance, dives and rolls in full armor and pops back up to run the rest of his momentum out. The crowd goes wild for both of them. Walder stops and lifts a hand in respect, and the Kingslayer bows. Then they both raise their hands in salute to the Commons. Lannister as he walks off the field, Walder as he rides a circuit. Arya stands and shouts, "Winterfell! Winterfell!" and she can hear the Northmen and much of the crowd join in. Walder slows as he passes them by and offers them a warm smile and a wave.

"He is truly a formidable warrior," Ned says. "Lord Beric was only a squire back then, but he was on Pyke when your man slew Victarion Greyjoy. He said it was the greatest fight he ever saw."

"He's of the North," Arya says matter-of-factly, "no one can stand against him. Not even that brute." She is eying the Mountain waiting at the head of the lists."

Gregor Clegane sits at one end, a massive statue carved of granite. The Knight of Flowers is at the other, throwing roses toward the crowd, and then doing some trick with his legs that gets his horse to trot sideways. How did he do that? I must ask him next time I see him.

"The Mountain is our grandfather's man but has ever terrified me when I see him," Myrcella confesses.

"He should," Arya replies to her and Tommen both. "He has no goodness in him, the Martells would tell you that. Don't ever let yourself be alone with him if you can help it."

"Can Ser Loras beat him?" She hears her sister ask.

"He can," Renly states, staring intently at the Highgarden knight.

"Something is wrong with the Mountain's stallion," Ned says

Arya sees the beast stamping and snorting and laughs when the truth dawns on her. "Loras's mare is in heat. That is brilliant."

"But not honorable," Ned responds.

"The honor is in defeating a dishonorable and disgraceful opponent," she argues back.

"Well said, Lady Arya," Renly adds. "The Mountain's reputation was tempered in the blood of women and children. There is honor in defeating monsters, no matter how it is done."

"One dishonorable act smooths the way to the second,second to third and on and on until we are the monsters."

"Who told you that?" Renly asks. "Lord Beric?"

"No," Ned says. "It was in the last letter my uncle Ser Arthur wrote to my father. Before he was defeated by Lord Stark."

Arya wants to answer, but cannot come up with a good one before the signal is given, and the two riders charge. Loras is as smooth as silk as he closes in on the giant man. Clegane, however, is having trouble with his mount, trying to get his shield and lance in place and then Loras in on him, his lance slamming into the Mountain's chest, and suddenly he and his horse are both tumbling in a heap of flesh and steel.

The crowd erupts and the Knight of Flowers rides a circuit, waving to the Commons. Renly laughs and chants "Loras! Highgarden!"

She laughs and claps, as well, happy to see the evil man put out of the tournament when she hears Ned's concerned voice. "What is he doing?"

She looks to the Mountain just as his squire hands him his sword. With one savage swing, he nearly severs his stallion's head from its body. The beast screams and goes down in a gush of blood, but the Mountain is already walking down the lists toward the Knight of Flowers. The crowd's cheers turn to shouts and screams of terror.

Myrcella screams, as well, but she takes her brother and presses him against her chest to keep his eyes from such horror. Sansa gasps but does not turn away. "Renly yells out, "Somebody stop him!"

Ned rises and gives them a quick bow, "My ladies, my princess, I must go," and then he is running down the stands. Arya pulls her dagger from its sheath and darts after him. She hears Sansa yelling something at her and Lady Allyria yelling something at Ned, but she pays it no mind. They jump the barrier at the same time and start running toward the Mountain, but they are too late. Ser Loras does not notice the Mountain as he swings his greatsword and smashes the Knight of Flower's shield, knocking him clear of his saddle to land dazed and helpless in the dirt. The young knight rolls over and begins to crawl, and calls out for his sword, but the Mountain is on him, and his sword is raised, and Arya realizes that the monster is going to kill the pretty knight who danced with her and spoke of horses as they did…

...until a lance explodes against the Mountain and sends the giant hurtling backwards twenty feet. He lands with a thud on his backside and goes head over heels and ends up on his face, his sword thrown ten paces away from him in the fall. Walder, shattered lance in hand, rides around as the Mountain starts to rise. The Giantsblood dismounts between Clegane and the Knight of Flowers. He sees her running toward him and holds up a hand, gives a sharp shake of his head, and points to Ser Loras. She and Ned run to the fallen knight and help him up. Ned pulls his sword and asks if she can help the knight get away. "Go, I've got him," she says, wishing she had Needle and not just a dagger, "he's only dazed." She turns her head as she leads him away to see what is happening.

Walder doesn't have his sword, but Ned has his drawn and pointed at Clegane though he is in just a doublet and breeches. The Mountain is on his feet, and his squire collects his sword, but is smashed in the face by Gendry's heavy fist before he can take two paces. Gendry unslings Red Rain from his shoulder and tosses it to Walder before picking up Clegane's greatsword. Walder rips the Valyrian sword from its sheath and levels it at The Mountain. Gendry does the same thing to The Mountain's squire, who is covering his broken and bloody nose with both hands.

Clegane, murder on his face, looks at all of them in turn. Gendry, Ned, Walder, and then takes a step toward Walder before Renly intervenes with Ser Arys and half a dozen goldcloaks and shouts, "STOP THIS MADNESS! IN THE NAME OF ROBERT YOUR KING!" Clegane's dark gaze moves from Walder to Renly, and Arya is certain he will attack, but instead he spits, eyes Walder again and then walks off back to the tents. Gendry hands the greatsword back to the squire, who yanks it from him and runs after his master.

The silent, stunned crowd erupts in cheers and chants of "Walder" and "Winterfell." Walder sheathes Red Rain and hands it back to Gendry with a clap on his back. The big oaf pushes that black mop he calls hair out of his face and grins like an idiot to the adoring crowd.

Arya rolls her eyes before sitting her charge down and helping him with his helmet. "How could you not see him walking up on you, you big dummy?" She asks Loras. "He's seven and a half feet tall."

The Knight of Flowers looks up at her and laughs. His face is covered in sweat and dirt, but he still looks lovely as ever, and Arya wants to smack him for being prettier than she is.

"Why Lady Arya, it sounds as if you were concerned. If I wasn't certain of your honor as a daughter of House Stark, I should think you have designs on my virtue."

She scoffs. "You expect me to believe that you still have your virtue?"

"He is the most virtuous of knights," Renly says, walking over and kneeling by Loras. He places a hand on his shoulder, and asks gently, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he says. "Just got cross-eyed for a bit when I landed in the dirt. Help me up." Renly and Arya grab either hand and stand him on his feet. "Give me my sword, and I'll cut that brute down a piece at a time."

"No," Renly says. "Going after him means trouble with Tywin, and my brother will want to avoid that."

"But he tried to kill Ser Loras," Arya says, seeing that Ned and Walder have walked up to join them. "He should be arrested."

"He should be," Renly admits, "but any trial with him is going to end in a fight to the death. No one was killed here, thank the Seven, and my brother, nor I, will want to risk any lives on a charge of assault."

"I'll fight him, and I'll kill him if it comes to it," Loras says.

"I would offer my sword, as well," Walder says.

"And the realm would risk neither of you," Renly returns.

Loras looks like he is going to protest, but Renly holds a hand up. "I will tell Robert and Lord Eddard what has transpired here and let them decide. In the meanwhile, let us continue the tournament. Can you ride, Loras?"

"No need," the Highgarden knight says as he walks over to Walder and leads him to the center of the lists. "I owe this man my life," he says, voice raised so the lords and commons can hear him. "The day belongs to him," he finishes with a bow. Walder returns it, and the crowd cheers once more.

The stands and the Commons begin to empty as they make their way to the melee and archery grounds. Gendry returns with Walder's horse, and the huge Northman mounts up and pulls his squire up behind him. He bids Arya and Sansa, just then come to join them with the royal children and Lady Allryia, to go on without him, and he will join them later to escort them back to the keep. When they are gone, Renly and Loras stare after them for a moment and then share a brief look, but nothing is said.

The melee is a chaotic two hours, and ends with Thoros of Myr unhorsing Strongboar Crakehall at the end. Lord Beric made it to the last four before being knocked to the ground by the large Westerner. Ned had already left to be at the knight's ready, and Lady Allyria said her goodbyes shortly after he was thrown, though she promised that all three would be happy to ride with them the next day.

Walder and Gendry arrive to sit with them during the archery contest. Renly acts as if the resemblance between him and Walder's large squire is nothing of consequence, and Loras follows his lead. Arya shares a brief look with Sansa, who appears relieved that the King's brother is letting this go. If Gendry is confused as to why the Master of Ships and Lord of Storms End looks like kin, he doesn't let on, his commoner's deference bred so deep he hardly raises his eyes to them when introduced. Myrcella also grasps the situation quickly enough when he is introduced as Gendry Waters. Arya can see that she is immediately interested in this brother that she never knew existed, and sends a glance her way. Arya walks over and whispers, "we'll talk about it later." Tom looks confused, but Myrcella takes him in hand before anything is said.

They all sit and enjoy the archery competition. Arya cheers loudly for the commoner who wins the prize, and Walder sends Gendry to offer the lad a spot in the Hand's guard, but he is refused, much to her chagrin.

Renly and Loras say their farewells along with the royal children. Walder and Gendry ride with them back to the Red Keep and they find their father and Jory and their wolves waiting for them at the gates. Jory is kneeling next to the wolves, running his hand through their fur. They are large, half again as big as regular wolves and growing still. "Stable your horses and meet me in the godswood," he says and walks away with Jory. They do as asked, Walder and Gendry walking next to them. Walder has Red Rain across his back, Gendry has his warhammer and a short sword according to Walder's orders.

They find their father praying, Jory standing vigil. The wolves bound off into the trees and brush, snapping and growling and nipping at one another. Her father rises. "Gendry, stand guard, please."

"Yes, m'lord," the boy says, traipsing off to the edge of the trees.

"Tell no secrets within the walls of the castle," her father says. "When we speak our business, we speak it here, with Walder and Jory standing guard, and the wolves to flush out any who would eavesdrop." He walks over to Sansa and places his hand gently on her face. "The betrothal is broken. Robert and I agreed before the Small Council."

"There was no protest?" Sansa asks.

"There will be. The Queen did not want this union for her son, but she will not tolerate the slight of our House breaking the pact. We must be ready for her counter."

"Rumors," Arya says. When they look at her, she expounds. "There were whispers all day just from what happened at the tourney. That's how she'll attack."

"We can expect the Queen to plant her own rumors that spare her son and place blame on me," Sansa adds. "Joffrey isn't well loved, however, and he thoroughly embarrassed himself at the tourney. It will be easier for anyone to believe the worst of him. Especially given the King's public apology to me in the stands. Much of the court was there and saw."

"Aye," her father says, and runs his hands down his face. He looks tired, but determined. "There are happenings here that you do not know, that I cannot tell you, lest it make you a target of our enemies."

"Father, you can trust us," Arya responds.

He gives her a smile. "I know I can, and I do, but there is danger at every turn here, and I would keep you safe…"

"Joffrey raped and killed Jeyne," Sansa interjects. Her sister's gaze is hard, and Arya realizes the truth of her tactic. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Father would never bring them into his plans because they are still children to him. By trusting him with their knowledge, he will see them for what they are. Part of the pack.

To her surprise, her lord father does not appear startled by the news. "Why do you say so?"

They tell him everything. From the Prince's behaviour at Winterfell onward.

When they are done, he takes Sansa's hand in his. "I have been blind. Can you forgive your fool of a father for putting you in harm's way?" He reaches his other hand out for Arya, and she takes it. "Can you forgive me for unwittingly making you your sister's protector?"

Sansa is crying, and Arya can feel her own eyes fill up with tears just as her heart fills up with love for him. "There is nothing to forgive," Sansa says, and he takes both of them in his arms, and Arya cries against his chest.

He pulls away, and they both wipe the tears away. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. It is time for me to give you the respect due as Starks. Jon asked me to trust you with this, but your mother and I wanted to keep you safe. It is clear to me now that thinking is folly. We all were in danger the moment we stepped foot in this city, perhaps the moment I accepted Robert's offer to be Hand. Now, girls, it is time to tell you exactly how dangerous this place is."