She's standing outside in the stone gardens that Joffrey has granted her access to because someone mentioned that a pregnant woman needed fresh air. So Sansa is grateful to whoever said that even though she can do little more than sit and stroll under the warmth of the lemon yellow sun. Sometimes, if she's feeling ambitious, she'll try to tend to a few flowers but the protrusion of her stomach prevents her from doing so for too long and Joffrey's guards are always keen on reporting any ill movement Sansa does to their king.
"You must keep yourself hearty and safe," Joffrey had informed Sansa strictly, "if by any chance my son is harmed in your womb, it will be your head on a pike, do you hear me?"
"Of course my lord - "
"Don't curtsey!" he spat out, the force of his glare causing her to nearly tumble forward. Reaching out, Joffrey's arms caught her and for a moment Sansa relished in the feel of being supported by his frame before he shoved her upright. "Are you a little fool or do you simply lack the intellect to think?" he sneered, but his hands were gently pressed onto Sansa's stomach, almost reassuring himself that his child was safe. "You Stark's really seem to possess no ability to keep yourselves from harms way."
Sansa's eyes were now downcast as she endured his majesty's ire. Her trembling hands were clenched together in front of her and she dared not move lest Joffrey decided her face had less value than her womb.
"Return to your chambers," he snapped, turning back to his writing desk. "I'm busy with matters that you would not understand."
His belittlement did little to deter Sansa's inward sigh of relief. She'd expected Joffrey to become kinder to her now that the child was being carried closer and closer to term but as with everything, the king of Westeros simply became even more of a tyrant unto her personally. He seemed to cringe at every movement she made and had half a mind to keep her locked in her bedchambers.
Most of the court already suspected that the babe Sansa carried did not belong to her lord husband and Joffrey had been all to pleased to encourage said rumor. He'd personally sent Sansa sweetmeats and lemon cakes, cherry cordials and sweet wine; her dresses were now all to be made of the most priceless silk and the most valuable lace whilst new jewels were to adorn her neck. For the king, Sansa appeared to be nothing more than a pretty doll he could dress up and punish whenever he wished but he never ceased to call her to his presence, trying to talk with her as civilization so decreed. Sometimes these conversations would flow well into the night, with smiles from both and occasionally, a burst of laughter. Other times they were tense and Joffrey would dismiss Sansa from his presence but his rage would not dissipate. The most frequent reaction was Joffrey's ranting and raving, making Sansa his own personal sort of worldly sage who would not judge, but listen.
Only Queen Margaery seemed to have the slightest clue on how to placate the volatile king but these efforts were dwindling as Joffrey became more and more enamored with other matters. He'd found the rules of politics to be a board game that he could never truly figure out and thought of the treasury as a baker's oven whose sweet treats were always in the minority. Eventually, Tyrion grew aggravated with his nephew's childish disposition and a few words later, Willas Tyrell was the new Hand.
But none of these changes bothered Lady Sansa Lannister who found herself either strolling the halls or solivagant in the quiet gardens.
It was a warm summer night when Joffrey entered into Sansa's bedchambers, his hands trembling when he saw her nude form on the bed; a sacrificial Botticelli on a raging sea of violet taffeta.
The heat had been so unbearable for the last few days that Sansa had taken to sleeping with nothing on apart from a silk chemise on or, simply nothing at all. Tyrion never entered into his lady wife's chambers when he had his own to occupy himself with and Sansa had long since ceased to feel embarrassed about her expanding form.
Whether she liked it or not, she was carrying the king's (illegitimate) son (or daughter) and this was one of the things Sansa felt she could pride herself in.
Watching her now, Joffrey found himself entranced by the pearly sheen of her skin, almost glowing in the silver moonlight like a glint of snow under the winter sun. Her fiery red hair appeared to be spilled blood in the darkness, its scarlet shade so violently vibrant that Joffrey felt his breeches tighten and his heartbeat stutter. There was no denying Sansa Stark's beauty, that much he could willingly admit to himself; from her long legs to her growing breasts, he enjoyed looking at her. Found himself observing her body as he would a newly crafted steel blade or a polished crossbow.
But neither sword nor bow had the same silky feel as the softness of Sansa's skin, slightly damp from a lavender scented bath and so pure she could almost be considered virginal. It was a tristful thought, Joffrey mooned, how she could be so intoxicatingly lovely like a sparrow ready for flight, only her wings had been clipped and replaced with golden swatches.
Crossing the room in a few strides, Joffrey stripped himself of his clothes and gently lowered himself down next to her. Grasping her waist, he pulled Sansa closer to him until her breasts were pressed against his chest, her legs tangled with his own, and her quiet breath caressing his bare skin.
He so badly wanted to slide himself into her, to feel her walls tighten around his cock and her breath hitch but something stopped him. Perhaps it was because he did not want to damage the child; perhaps, if he let her be, then their babe would be blessed by those heavenly graces he himself had forsaken.
"Goodnight, little flame," he murmured tenderly as his fingertips trailed down her protruding stomach. "Give me a son worthy of the Baratheon name."
Sansa could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, she could see nothing but a hazy golden light as voices enveloped her as darkness does a cave. "Push, Lady Sansa, push! Again once more, my lady, please!" came the cry of the midwife as Sansa's weary muscles managed to stitch themselves together once again as a scream ripped itself from her throat and the wailings of a newborn filled the air.
"Cut the cord, you imbecile!" the midwife snapped but Sansa barely heard her. Her arms reached out, searching for her child and in her delirium, could hardly make out relieved face of her lord husband.
"My baby," Sansa choked out, voice weak as her fingers fluttered to and fro in the air. "Where is my baby?"
"One moment, my lady," a serving girl managed before a bundle of white was handed into her arms. "Be careful with the other!" the girl shouted again, but to who Sansa did not know. "Your daughter, Lady Sansa," the servant said softly, placing the white bundle into Sansa's arms.
But Sansa had no time to fully take in her daughter's red-gold hair or cornflower blue eyes, she could barely rein in the sheer terror consuming her soul as she realized she'd birthed a daughter. Joffrey may have promised to care for a girl just as he would a boy but Sansa knew her king's word was as fickle as the spring sun and his rage as fierce as a Northern winter. Her arms trembled as she brought her daughter closer to her breast, tucking her small head under her chin.
"My lady…" the midwife's voice pierced through Sansa's thoughts, "perhaps you would like to see your son as well?" she inquired.
The words sent a jolt of hope through Sansa as she immediately tried to sit up, forcing two servants to pin her shoulders back down. "Be careful, my lady," a young voice chided but Sansa paid it no heed.
"My son, give me my son." Sansa demanded, gently placing her daughter back into the servant girl's - was Laura her name? - arms before another bundle of blue line was placed into her own. Looking down, Sansa saw the golden hair of a Lannister lion and, as the babe allowed a loud wail to fill the air again, Sansa saw her son (their son) was strong. "Open your eyes for me, little one," Sansa cooed gently, "open your eyes and let your mother see what color they are." her soft pleas were soothing and the young newborn, sufficiently satisfied that his mother's attentions were now on him, allowed his eyes to open and Sansa was greeted with irises of a violent and volatile cobalt.
Their shade of blue was so mesmerizing that Sansa could barely hold back a gasp, for he looked so very much like his deceased grandmother that Sansa felt tears prick her eyes. "Oh, my blessed babe," Sansa murmured, pressing the child closer towards her, "my little prince."
"What shall you name him?" Tyrion's voice called from across the room.
"I shall call him - "
The doors to Sansa's bedchamber were suddenly slammed open and the women of the chamber went into a flurry. Sansa could see floating pink dresses, white cloth, Tyrion's silver armor, and then, materializing right before her eyes, the ruler of the Seven Kingdom's golden crown and red cloak.
"Have you started naming our children without first consoling their father and lord sovereign?" Joffrey chuckled easily, his eyes fixed on the male babe in Sansa's arms. "My son?" he inquired pointedly before Sansa could pull herself together and nod.
"Yes, your grace. Your son."
"Our son," Joffrey corrected, holding out his arms. "Let me hold him," he commanded and Sansa felt her heart clench but dared not hesitate.
She picked up the bundle and gently laid him into Joffrey's waiting arms; the ruler of Westeros stared at the child for a long while before allowing a half sneer, half smile to appear on his cruelly handsome face. "Tully blue eyes," he said, clicking his tongue in disapproval before gazing down at Sansa. "But he's a lion through and through. A Lannister name is what he needs, one who will make armies tremble in their wake and who will command the respect of the people."
Sansa bowed her head, knowing any chance of honoring her father's memory had long since been dashed away.
"From this moment on he will be Charlemagne. Charlemagne Arik Lannister." Joffrey declared, voice strong and firm, "and he will be my firstborn son."
Sansa felt a strange peace envelop her as Joffrey's declaration rang throughout the silent bedchamber. From the corner of her eye she could see Tyrion struggling with a flurry of emotions; a strange guilt began to arise within her heart. The child she had birthed should have been Tyrion's, Sansa realized, it should be Tyrion naming his son or daughter, his scarred face beaming with pride. But Sansa's thoughts of guilt and pity must have reflected upon her face for when she turned her head to face her husband fully, the Imp's countenance was a mask of indifference and Sansa looked down, ashamed.
"And what of your daughter, your grace?" the servant girl Laura inquired, producing a white bundle in her arms.
Joffrey gazed at the girl with a look of disinterest, "twins?" he inquired, "just like my mother and uncle, I suppose." Joffrey mused, before turning to Sansa. "Name her what you wish," he said, "so long as it is not so obvious."
Sansa's brow furrowed but before she could inquire as to what he meant, Joffrey had placed the blue linen bundle into the midwife's arms and gestured to the inhabitants in the room to leave them be. "Go on," Joffrey said, waving his hand, "leave myself and the Lady Sansa be for a few moments. We need to share a few words of our own."
Fear gripped Sansa's heart but she kept her weary expression on, hoping Joffrey would leave her be.
"My lord?" she inquired, wishing so very much she was standing so that she might curtsey or at the very least, be able to back away.
"Surely my darling little flame is not so afraid of me now that she cannot meet my eye?" Joffrey said lightly, his voice filled with amusement as he slipped a finger under Sansa's chin, tilting her face upward so that their eyes met. Green on blue. "You have given me two children," he said matter-of-factly, "while my lady wife Margaery is yet to find herself with child. I propose this to you, Lady Sansa: if my wife does not find herself pregnant by my next name day, I shall divorce and marry her to my Uncle Jaime and you, Sansa Lannister, will become my new wife and queen."
"I…my lord," Sansa managed, her eyes widening with genuine surprise whilst she tried to quash down the strange bubbling in her chest. She felt like a newly opened bottle of champagne and an all too familiar blush was now adoring her cheeks. "Surely that would not sit well with House Tyrell."
Joffrey rolled his eyes. "I'm marrying Margaery to my uncle, aren't I? He's every bit a Lannister as I am and our houses will still be connected. If need be, I'll marry my mother to Willas and drag Myrcella from Dorne so she can marry Loras. Already I've made Willas Tyrell my Hand, what more does that family need? I am the king and I hardly suspect that I need to review every decision I make with those power hungry aggressors below me." he finished, his voice polished in perfect arrogance as he eyed Sansa. "Unless," he started, "you do not wish to marry the king?"
"No!" Sansa answered, voice a bit too loud and all blood draining from her face. "Of course I do," the red-haired Stark breathed out, "only I had feared for your sake, my lord. I did not wish to feel as if I was…pushing you into doing any act you did not so wish. Except such a thought is foolish, you are the king, everything you do is not without some greater purpose, I'm sure."
"Then it's settled," Joffrey declared, "I shall give this ultimatum to Margaery and you shall name our daughter. After all, it's best to have one of those things to use as a merger. Perhaps the Tyrell's won't be so sore if we marry Loras off to a princess," he snickered before brushing his lips against Sansa's sweaty forehead and departing.
In the end, Sansa names her daughter Aome because it is one belonging to the ancient North; Joffrey supplies Aome with her middle name - Johanna. Perhaps he had done it to further torment his Uncle Tyrion but Sansa found she did not mind, so long as no form of the word 'Cersei' ever came close to her daughter's title.
It was late, the middle of the night, when Sansa passed by his majesty's bedchamber and heard the familiar sounds of skin on skin and lips against lip. She heard her highness crying out and then gasps of varying intervals echoed out into the silent hallway. A bizarre feeling of suffocation enveloped Sansa and she forced her feet to move, to walk past the royal bedchamber and into her own where Charlemagne and Aome rested. After all, Charlemagne's name day tourney was to be held in three days time and Sansa did not want her son to be awakened by nightmares before his celebration.
Why should she even care of what the king and queen did late at night? After all, wishing for the queen's dethronement was treason of the highest order and Sansa certainly bore no ill will to the amicable Tyrell heiress. But why then, Sansa pondered as she sat down on her violet bed, did she feel such a wound when there was none directed at her?
A/N: Okay, I am very, very sorry about the delay in the second chapter of 'Peccadillo'. As you can tell, Joffrey's a bit more 'in character' so to speak in this chapter and you can all probably decipher why...as soon as I post up the third chapter! Which will hopefully not take as long as this one did!
And what did you think of the names? Should Margaery wind up pregnant or should Joffrey divorce her? Let me know what you think, please!
Review.