The days came, and the days passed, with every one nearly the same as the last. Sansa felt like a ghost for most of them. If it weren't for the mutters and whispers and eyes that followed her, she might think she was a ghost for true, for all she was alone.
But she wasn't truly alone. How could she be alone when they all watched? Sansa could not blame them. She imagined she was hard to miss, with the shadow looming overhead. The shadow of a traitor's daughter, a traitor's sister. A heavy shadow that none wanted to shoulder.
Sansa wondered if the shadow was all they saw. Did they see the ill-fitting dresses? Did they see her father's head, watching over the keep? Had they seen Joffrey humiliate her, had they seen the Kingsguard beat her? No one rested their eyes on her. Their eyes slid over her, unseeing, and fell on the shadow.
Mayhap they hadn't seen a thing, as none made any mention of it to her. None of them spoke to her at all, except to make her sing. My father was a traitor, I am loyal to the King, my brother is a traitor, how often must they hear it? Her voice grew hoarse, and she feared soon she would not be able to sing at all.
None saw her, and none spoke to her. Sansa had grown accustomed to speaking to no one save the maids who served her, or the ladies that Cersei sent to wait on her. The maids only said "yes, my lady," and the ladies spoke nothing at all. Their eyes said all Sansa needed to hear. She never had the same ladies for more than a fortnight, and they were all from the Westerlands. Cersei's creatures. They gossiped and giggled amongst themselves, but never with her. Who can blame them? She sent them away, whenever she could.
Sansa stayed in her chambers as often as she could. The shadow could not reach her there. But one could only read so many books, and the ones she read were so dreadfully boring. The servants only ever brought her old stories, stories that she'd read time and time again as a child. They all seemed so hollow now.
If she did not read, she wandered. Sansa suspected she knew the Red Keep nearly as well as Arya and Bran had, before they left. And if she did not wander, she slept. Or tried to sleep, at the very least. Dreams ruled her nights. Oftentimes, watching the moon rise and then fall proved to be the better choice.
In her dreams, she lived the day of her father's death over and over again. Each night she stood on those steps, the crowd jeering below her, her father's sword in Illyn Paynes' hands. Each night, the sword cut through the air and found its mark with a dull thud. The first few nights, it had been her father's head that rolled to a stop at her feet. Then it changed.
One night, she'd watched as faceless guards dragged Robb through the crowd and up the steps. He always smiled at her as Ser Illyn took his head. The same, sad smile he'd given to her in the yard of Winterfell when she left. Other nights, it had been Alysanne. Alysanne screamed and fought as Joffrey had her brought before him. She screamed for Robb, for her mother and father, for Sansa. And Sansa always found that her feet would not move. On the nights that Ser Illyn took Alysanne's head, fire would spill from her neck. A few times, it had been Theon forced to kneel in front of Joffrey. He always stared at her sadly, words on his lips that Sansa could never make sense of.
Her father, Robb, Alysanne, Theon, her mother, her father, Arya and Bran, her father again, it made no matter. Each dream ended with blood flooding the steps and the crowd demanding more. Each morning brought deeper and darker circles beneath her eyes.
The nights she didn't dream of the Sept, she dreamt of the woods. She dreamt of dense forests and wide open fields, the north, of freedom. Those dreams were few and far between, and came less as the days rolled on, but she cherished every one. In those dreams she could run free, with wolves by her side. Those dreams always felt so real. She could feel the dirt and pine needles beneath her feet, the crisp air, some mornings she could still taste the blood of a fresh kill in her mouth.
Last night, it had been Sansa at Joffrey's feet. Sansa had watched as he had her dragged through the crowd, naked and bleeding from gaping wounds on her back. She watched as Joffrey had her thrown before him. She watched as her own head came to a stop before her own feet.
The books bored her, her ladies mocked her, the walls of her rooms caved in, and so she wandered. Her feet carried her along a familiar path, and she found herself outside an arched doorway.
Sansa walked through the doorway onto a covered walkway, open on one side. Benches lined the walls, and gauzy curtains floated in the breeze. Faint shouts came from below, along with the dulled clashes of wood on wood. Hardly anyone used the walkway. There were quicker means of reaching the yard below. She walked away from the entryway and leaned against the railing. Sunlight burned in her eyes.
From her place on the balustrade, Sansa could see nearly the entire could see the men training. Off duty knights of the Kingsguard sparred against each other, yet she could not make out just who they were. They were at the farthest side from where she stood. Other lesser knights and members of the Lannister guard milled about, shirtless in the warm sun. Perhaps once Sansa would have been like the ladies and maids stood in the shade watching, pretending not to look or notice. But how many of those knights had stood by and watched as Joffrey had her beat? How many still reported her every move throughout the Red Keep to the Queen herself?
Squires ran about, sparring with each other or with their knights. Her heart grew heavy. The squires running about reminded her of Bran with Ser Addam, of Arya with her sword and her dancing master. They must have made it home. Tommen thought so.
How tall must Bran be by now? Even in the short time they spent together in King's Landing, he'd seemed to grow faster than a weed. When they left Winterfell, he only just reached her shoulder. When they embraced in her father's solar before Bran left, he'd nearly been the same height as her.
Perhaps she would make it home in time for Bran's name day. Sansa hadn't missed one yet. Not once. There's still months until his name day. There is still time. The previous year, she'd given Bran a new jerkin, to replace the one he'd torn climbing in the godswood. This year, she'd started on a new cloak for him. The ones he brought from Winterfell would be too heavy in King's Landing, and Sansa thought that he'd appreciate having one perhaps a bit finer than the ones made of plain wool. It lay half finished in her trunk. She hadn't touched it since her father's arrest.
She hadn't touched Arya's gift, either. Her name day was only a few moons after Bran's. Just days after their arrival, she'd dragged Septa Mordane and Jeyne along with her to the market squares and the Street of Looms. Jory had come along as well, she recalled. It'd taken Sansa nearly the entire day to settle on fabrics. Soft linen for breeches, and fine silk for a dress. Arya hated dresses, Sansa knew it all too well. But being in King's Landing, she'd have to wear one sometimes. Sansa had thought she may as well have one more suited to her tastes than the ones her mother had packed. She'd settled on a silk of soft blue. She always thought Arya looked especially beautiful in soft blues and greys.
Old wounds had long ago been forgiven, but Sansa still cringed to think of the names she'd called her sister as a girl. Arya horse-face still wound its way through her head. A cruel name that filled her with shame. And how untrue it proved to be. Arya long ago had grown into her long face, and her many scuffed knees and torn dresses made for a learned gracefulness that many ladies would never know. The wildness never left, and Sansa never wanted it to. She thanked the gods that they'd never listened to her prayers and pleads to tame her little sister. What I wouldn't give to see Arya tear around the corner, Septa Mordane hot on her trail.
I was only a child. A foolish girl. But she knew too well how childish insults found a way of finding home under one's skin, no matter how untrue they were. Arya had traded her share of barbs as well, but perhaps her's had some truth to them. How foolish was she; to think that staying behind would help her father? What could I have done? What did I possibly think I could do? A foolish girl, she was indeed.
For all her brother and sister had grown, they had never looked so small as the day they left. Bran had looked smaller still, sitting in front of their father as he told them the truth. The Queen and her brother. The thought of it still made her stomach roll. She should be thankful that Jaime Lannister hadn't killed Bran instead. A part of her wanted Robb to drive a sword through his belly. But he is still Alys' father, she reminded herself.
Joffrey hadn't forgotten that, and neither had Cersei. Or anyone at court. It angered her how Cersei spoke of Alysanne, the stories they told. They say she is a captive. They told tales of poor Jaime Lannister's daughter, held against her will by traitors. Beat and starved and humiliated. Lies, Sansa wanted to scream. Alysanne loved her brother, loved all of them. A part of Sansa wondered why Cersei and Joffrey bothered to lie at all. They hate her. Why not paint her a traitor as well? Even Lord Tyrion spread that story. He knew more than anyone what a lie it was.
The soft thunk of arrows finding home in the soft targets caught her attention. It made her fingers itch. When was the last time she'd held a bow? Felt the string thrum as she released her hold? Certainly not on the Kingsroad. And certainly not in King's Landing. She closed her eyes and listened again as an arrow found its mark. She could almost feel the taut bowstring beneath her fingertips, the ache and strain of her arms, Theon's guiding hand adjusting her aim.
When she was first learning, never did she think she'd miss it so much. She'd picked it because she thought it'd be easy. An easy way to join in with Alysanne and Arya with their sword play. A foolish notion. The memory brought a small smile to her lips now. Her father gifted her a bow, after she'd resolved to learn. She could remember hurrying down to the yard to try it out. She hadn't even been strong enough to draw the string back all the way, much to her dismay. The arrows she did manage to lose flew so off target she may as well have not bothered aiming at all, Theon was fond of saying.
The memories of bloodied fingertips and aching arms still made her wince. Before she'd developed callouses, her fingertips had nearly been too sore and tender to do so much as embroider. She'd very nearly given up archery altogether, rather than continue with the pain. It was Theon who made me continue. It was Theon who came to find her after a week of her absence in the archery yard. Theon, who was always so kind to her, even if he was crass with others. Theon, who always danced with her at feasts, or escorted her to the winter town.
She missed Theon more than she thought she would. When they first journeyed south, she'd given up hope of ever seeing him again. Even if her father had no plans of marrying her to Joffrey, it'd come at the expense of marrying someone else in the south. By the time she returned home, she thought Theon would be elsewhere. But now… if I am ever free of this place…
Sansa found it hard to imagine she would ever be free of King's Landing. It was foolish to entertain the thought of reuniting with her family in time for Bran's name day, or even Arya's. She'd spent long, lonely days wondering what her fate would be. Septa Mordane would have chided me for such thoughts. But Septa Mordane was dead. Her head rotted on a spike next to her father and the rest of his household.
Perhaps that would be her fate as well. Perhaps it would be a kinder fate than marrying Joffrey, or any other of the Lannister's. That is their plan for me, is it not? A marriage alliance to secure peace between the North and the Iron Throne. If Joffrey would even bother to try for peace. But Tyrion is smarter than him. As is Tywin. As long as they had claws in her, they had claws in Winterfell.
A throat cleared behind her. Tommen stood, hands folded politely behind his back. She dipped into a low curtsey. His guards are watching, others will notice. "Prince Tommen," she greeted. He wore black and gold, looking more like a stag than a lion. He motioned for her to rise.
Tommen hesitated before coming to stand by her side. He'd told her that she didn't need to call him by his title, or greet him so formally. They were friends, he'd said. Sansa wasn't certain she could call anyone in King's Landing a friend. And his guards would certainly tell Cersei anything that happened. He waved his guards back. They retreated to the arched doorway. Tommen gestured to the yard below. "Are you watching for anyone?"
She shook her head. "I am only watching," she spared a look at Tommen. He'd grown as well, at least since Winterfell. She wondered who would be taller now—Bran or Tommen? "I used to come here, to watch you and Bran spar. Now, it just reminds me of the yard at home."
Tommen flushed, only slightly. "Watch Bran beat me, you mean."
Sansa smiled good-naturedly. "He didn't beat you every time."
"Only because he let me," Tommen laughed.
"I'm sure that isn't true," Sansa allowed. It sounded like something Bran would do. Sansa didn't think there were many of Bran's age who could beat him, and he hadn't even earned his knighthood yet. And he'll only get better.
Silence stretched on, and Sansa let it. She did not know why Tommen continued to seek her out. She'd seen the way Cersei glowered when Tommen joined her in the gardens, or escorted her to her chambers, or made conversation with her at dinners. Certainly she's told him not to, so why did he continue?
He reports to her, a wicked voice said. Sansa tried to squash it, but the thought would not leave. He is only a boy, the same as Bran. I need not fear a boy. Bran trusted Tommen. Certainly that must be enough. Before he left, they had been nearly inseparable, and Tommen had been kind from the start. Bran wouldn't have befriended someone cruel. But you and Bran are not his family. She tried to remind herself that Tommen was not like Cersei.
Myrcella was not like Cersei either. From what slight interactions she'd had with her, of course. But Cersei was deceiving as well. Had it not been for Alysanne, Sansa was not certain she wouldn't have fallen for it. She'd been nothing but kind to Sansa on the road south, or what could pass as kindness. How many teas and dinners had the Queen invited her to, prior to her father's arrest? Not for the first time, Sansa was grateful for the forewarning.
Alysanne had said nothing about being wary of Myrcella and Tommen, though. She would have said something, if there was anything to be wary of at all. But how well does she know Myrcella? Or Tommen? They had been but children when Alysanne visited King's Landing, even then they'd only spent a moon or two in Winterfell together.
It did not matter. Myrcella had her Septa, and her Septa had instructions from Cersei. Instructions to keep Myrcella clear of Sansa, no doubt. The most she'd seen of Myrcella since they left Winterfell had been at dinners that Cersei invited her too. Always under her mother's watchful eye.
Tommen pointed to the archers below. "Bran told me you practice archery. I'm dreadful at swords. My own cats could defeat me," Tommen beamed at her. She returned the gesture. "Perhaps one day you can show me."
Sansa opened her mouth to say no, but instead said, "Perhaps one day." She doubted Cersei would allow Sansa within arm's reach of a bow, let alone with Tommen by her side. It is only a kind thought.
The clatter of armour echoed behind them. Sansa peered over her shoulder to see Ser Meryn and another Lannister guard fast approaching. Tommen shared a worried glance with her before he stepped in front of her, just slightly, in a manner that reminded Sansa of Bran.
"The King requests Lady Sansa's presence at court," Ser Meryn grumbled. Sansa clasped her hands tightly. Joffrey had not requested her presence at court in weeks. Not since Lord Tyrion's return. Her heart began to flutter.
Tommen stepped forward. "What for?"
Ser Meryn glared at him. He would not disrespect Tommen. At least not blatantly. Even he fears Cersei. "That is for the King to know," he growled.
Ser Meryn guided her forward. Tommen hurried after. "Perhaps I shall join as well." Ser Meryn did not look pleased. He cannot command him otherwise.
Lords and Ladies crowded in the Great Hall, a mass of silk and perfume before the raised dais. The Iron Throne sat as it always did, a gnarled monstrosity of iron and steel. Sunlight glinted off the blades and Sansa wondered if they were still sharp enough to kill. If the gods had mercy, the throne would take Joffrey as it did Maegor.
The Iron Throne dwarfed Joffrey. It would have been a ridiculous sight. Sansa might have laughed, if not for the accusing glares from all around. The guards that stood at the bottom of the dais might as well have been melted into the throne as well, for all they did not move. Their hands remained firmly on their swords. Tyrion was absent from the Hand's place beside the throne, as was Cersei. Sansa's palms began to sweat.
Joffrey sneered at Tommen trailing behind her. Accusing whispers and murmurs followed after her as she walked. It fed the shadow overhead, keeping her from holding her head high. They'd just passed the center of the hall when Joffrey ordered them to stop.
The hall went silent. Joffrey shifted his weight and pointed to Tommen. "I did not ask for you."
Tommen shuffled forward. "I was-I was with Lady Sansa when Ser Meryn came." Sansa watched as Tommen clutched his hands tight behind his back nervously. "I have every right to be here. Court is open to all, is it not?" Sansa blinked in surprise. She'd never heard Tommen speak so before Joffrey, not even in the private dinners she'd been so graciously invited to by Cersei. Tommen looked to the base of the throne and cast a sidelong glare at the guards lining the hall. "Where are Uncle Tyrion and mother?"
"That does not concern you," Joffrey said. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable standing to the side, away from the traitor's daughter," Joffrey spat. Sansa watched as Tommen tensed his shoulders. Do as he says, she pleaded silently. Tommen began to protest. "I'm fine right-" Ser Meryn pulled him away, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Sansa remained silent, her hands folded and head bowed. Joffrey stood, but did not walk down the towering steps of the throne. "I've called you here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."
Not again, please, not again. "My brother is a traitor, your grace. As is the rest of my family," she parroted. "I am loyal to you, my king."
Joffrey scoffed. Ser Boros marched up to her, then raised a mailed fist. Her head snapped to the side before she felt it. Her lip stung and her nose burned, blood welled in her mouth. Distantly, she thought she heard shocked murmurs and gasps. Her ears rang too loudly to be certain.
"Do you know what your brother has done?" Joffrey descended several steps down.
Sansa swallowed. Blood itched its way down her throat, still stuck to her teeth and tongue. She felt queasy. "I don't, your grace." Blood trickled down her chin. The last time he'd asked her this was when her brother had been named King. Tyrion interrupted that beating, but Tyrion was nowhere to be found.
"Liar!" Joffrey shrieked. "Ser Boros," he wet his lips. A vile smirk played on his lips. "Perhaps Lady Sansa should kneel." Before Sansa could kneel herself, Ser Boros kicked at her legs. She clattered to the floor. "My lady is overdressed," Joffrey sneered. Ser Boros tore at the laces of her dress and Sansa clung desperately to the front. Go away inside, she begged herself. Let it end.
A sharp whistle in the air, and the flat Ser Boros' blade met the bare skin of her back with a sharp sting. Sansa cried out. Her shadow spilled out around her, lords and ladies pressed backwards into each other to avoid its taint.
"Lancel," Joffrey called. Ser Boros stayed his sword. "Tell Lady Sansa what treasons she is to answer for."
Lancel Lannister stepped forward all too eagerly. A weasel, she named him. "Using vile magic, Robb Stark fell upon Jaime Lannister and his men. He took Jaime Lannister for a captive, and it's said his Northmen feasted on the flesh of the dead." Noises of disgust and cries of anger echoed from around.
Jaime Lannister, captive. Robb will trade for me, he must. Angered by her silence, Ser Boros brought his blade to her back again. She repeated what she'd learned to herself. His blade fell again, blood poured down her back. Sansa tried to think of Winterfell, of what it would be like to return home to her mother. Joffrey shouted at her, but all Sansa could hear was the sharp whistle of Ser Boros' blade slicing through the air.
The blade fell again and again and again, tearing her back to shreds. Tears spilled down her cheeks and her back was aflame. She dug her teeth into her lip, more blood burst into her mouth. Do not let him hear you scream. She tried to bite into her fist, but guards restrained her arms. Ser Boros stuck harder. The same spot, again and again.
Black spots danced in her vision. Each strike of his blade felt like a hot knife. Her screams tore her throat to shreds with equal vigor, but she could not stop them.
The doors behind her clattered open. "What is the meaning of this?" The guards dropped her arms. Sansa chanced a shaky glance over her shoulder. Tyrion marched through the hall, Tommen at his back. When did Tommen leave? She hadn't noticed him leaving, nor had she heard it.
Tyrion stopped short at the sight of her. "Clegane, give her your cloak," he ordered. The Hound emerged from his place in the shadows and draped his white cloak over her back. Tyrion continued forward towards Joffrey. "What madness has overcome you? Why do you insist on threatening every single chance of peace we have?"
Joffrey sputtered and spit, but Sansa's ears buzzed and her head swam too much to hear. Tommen crouched by her side. "Can you stand?" He asked softly. Sansa nodded tremulously. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Tommen helped her to her feet as gently as he could, but his hand fell onto her back and she inhaled sharply. Tommen winced.
Tommen took advantage of Joffrey's fury with his uncle and bundled her from the hall. Sansa's legs shook beneath her, but she did not want to stop. She focused on placing one foot in front of the other. She thought she was safe, or as safe as she could be. She thought Joffrey wouldn't beat her again, now that Tyrion was Hand. Stupid girl. You never learn.
A maester met them at her chambers. She only paid enough attention to him to note it wasn't Maester Pycelle, much to her relief. The maids that assisted him wasted no time in ordering everyone else out. They stripped what remained of her dress off. They led her to the bed, and she laid face down.
She bit into the blanket when the maester poured something onto her back. It burned more than the sword had, and it would not stop. She could feel as it trickled down her back, working its way into her shredded skin. They dabbed at the wounds with soaked cloths and she screamed louder. Sansa pushed herself up with her arms. "No more, please," she cried. The maester guided her back down. They continued to work, Sansa continued to scream.
They wrapped bandages around her, slipped a clean shift over her head, and left as if nothing had ever happened. All she could do was weep. Anger enveloped her. Try as she might, she could not hold it at bay. She was angry at herself for not leaving with Arya and Bran and Jeyne, angry at Joffrey and Cersei. With the anger came shame. What kind of person was she, to be angry at Arya and Bran for being safe when she wasn't? The gods would curse her for being angry at her brother, at his victories. Perhaps she'd sung her songs so well that she herself was beginning to believe it.
She awoke the next morning to the maester checking her bandages, and Tommen waiting in the doorway. When the maester finished, Tommen shuffled in.
He hovered over her. "I'm sorry, Sansa. The guards wouldn't let me stop Ser Boros. I ran for Uncle Tyrion as fast as I could."
Sansa sat up gingerly, careful to not move too fast and disturb her bandages. "It is not your fault, Tommen," she breathed. "You should not be here."
"I know," he kicked his feet. He looked over his shoulder and watched the door for a moment. "I would send you home, Sansa. If I could."
Panic seized her chest. "You shouldn't say such things," she hissed. The walls had ears. She thought of the guards who surely stood outside her door, the maids who wandered the halls, the spies the Queen surely had circling her like crows. Ears everywhere. Ears and eyes and loose tongues. They'd report back to the Queen, or Joffrey, and she'd be punished for turning Tommen to a traitor.
Promised Bran. She felt sorry for how quickly she'd snapped at Tommen. Promised Bran to protect me. Tears pricked at her eyes. Of course Bran would think to do such a thing. A longing for her younger brother overtook her. She felt stupid for mistrusting Tommen at all.
"I mean it," Tommen said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'll get you home. I promise."
Sansa looked nervously to the door. The guards will hear us listening. It won't matter that they didn't hear what about. Sansa spoke loud and clear. "Thank you, Prince Tommen, for asking after me. I am feeling better."
Tommen frowned, but did not question her. "My Uncle Tyrion wanted to speak to you. He's waiting outside." She looked at the door warily. He'll come in, whether or not I want him to. A small knock, and Tyrion pushed the door wider.
"Lady Sansa," he inclined his head. Sansa did not return the gesture. Tyrion waved Tommen away and came to stand in front of her. "I am sorry for what happened."
"It was not you who raised the sword, my lord," Sansa said.
Tyrion shuffled his feet in a manner that reminded Sansa of Tommen. "Still, with the news of my brother, I perhaps should not have left. I did not think Joffrey would return to this… behavior." Anger welled in her chest. He should know Joffrey better than anyone. She bit her tongue. Why did he leave? Tyrion sniffed. His eyes drifted around the room, to the door, then back to her.
"Your father never signed the betrothal agreement between you and Joffrey," he said lowly. "I can make sure it's never signed at all. There are other ways to ensure peace, between your brother and the crown. Is this what you want?"
Sansa studied his face. He looked as though he'd swallowed something especially bitter. He is a Lannister. You cannot trust him. How could she be certain that this wasn't a trap? That this wasn't one of Cersei's tricks? Ser Jaime and Cersei were certainly close. From what she'd seen in Winterfell, Tyrion was close with his brother as well. Certainly, he must be angry at his capture.
"My brother is a traitor," she sang. "I am loyal to Joffrey." Tyrion stared at her with sad eyes. His pity only angered her more.
It is your fault I'm stuck here. If he truly wanted her free, could he not send her on her way? He talked of Joffrey, and ensuring the agreement was never signed, but what good would that do? She would still be stuck in the Red Keep, under their thumbs. He means to tempt you with illusions of freedom. What would he do, if she told him that was what she wished? Sansa turned her head away from him. "If you don't mind, my lord, my back pains me. I wish to rest."
Tyrion bid his farewells. He placed a guiding hand on Tommen's back as he left, but even then she was not alone.
The shadow seeped under the door, into her room, as her newest ladies-in-waiting filed in. She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring how her back screamed. "Out," Sansa rasped. They ignored her. They continued to flutter about, finding seats at the small table and in front of the windows. "Out!" She ordered. They jumped, but it wasn't until Sansa flung the goblet at her bedside towards one of them that they left.
They took the shadow with them. Sansa was truly alone then. She did not bother to retrieve the spilled goblet, or clean the liquid it'd spilt. The wounds on her back burned once more, fire spilling down her spine. She ignored the flames as best she could and focused instead on the birds singing outside her small window.