Author's notes:
This chapter is a lot darker than the last one. If you are disturbed by scenes of public humiliation, this chapter won't be for you.
Huge thanks to my readers for sticking with this story and especially to those of you who let me know you liked it. It helps a lot!
Chapter 10: Lying
Her world had shifted once again, Sansa thought as she peered at her reflection in the full-length mirror that stood in the bedroom she shared with Sandor.
Sandor.
She let the sound of his name wash over her as she thought it and then again as she said it out loud, mesmerized at the notion that he was Sandor to her now. Not a ser, not a lord or anyone addressed in a way that enforced distance and submission. Just Sandor. The man she shared a bed with, a table and a house.
And her body.
The thought was not nearly as abhorrent now as it had been just a few days ago.
Back then she had felt so powerless, had felt demeaned and dishonoured whereas now she felt... she didn't quite know how she felt.
She searched her reflection for some sort of change, but other than a heightened colour in her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes, there was no notable difference to the Sansa Stark she had been a week ago.
If it wasn't for the slight soreness in her inner thighs, she might have been tempted to believe she had dreamed what had happened between them only a few hours ago.
But no, no dream could be as visceral, as frighteningly intimate as what they had shared.
This encounter had been so completely removed from what he had done to her a couple of nights ago, it didn't even seem to be the same act. His care of her had moved her almost to tears, the sensations he elicited with his hands on her, with his gentle, questing kisses had sent her reeling and when he moved inside her, so slow and careful, it had felt much more like a caress than an intrusion.
A caress she would have no problem getting used to.
So she had found the courage to slay the rest of her fears and do what Sibyl had advised her to, wrap her legs around his hips to take him as deep as she could to intensify his pleasure. Once again his reaction had surprised her, but this time she had been happy as he came apart in her arms, groaning and shaking.
Much more than that first night, when it felt as if something had been taken from her in a brutal, painful act; this felt as if she had actually given something of her own free will.
Something of true worth to Sandor; not just a scrap of skin and a few drops of blood for Joffrey to gloat over.
Not having given anything for far too long, she had revelled in how good it made her feel about herself. So good, in fact, that she had forgotten for a long while what it made her to give herself to him that way, what people thought about this, what everyone would say if they knew.
For some reason, at this moment, it hadn't mattered.
So when once again he had started cursing, started to pull back in some sort of unhappy self-deprecation, her instincts, so long buried, came to the fore and commanded her to do for him what all those months before he had done for her. To soothe him and hold him and give him the feeling that at least one person still cared.
They'd stayed like this for a long time. He had trembled above her and she had felt the coolness on her cheek that was his sweat, and a hot wetness that wasn't. She had held him through all of this until eventually he'd got up and turned from her wordlessly.
After washing and dressing, he had walked to the door and she was afraid he'd leave without so much as a word when he turned to her, averting his eyes.
"Thank you," he had said before walking out, too fast for her to even reply.
…
By the time she had come down to a very late breakfast, he was already gone.
Thankfully, Betsy didn't seem to be too disappointed about it, because he had taken the time to explain to the girl that he was urgently needed at the keep.
So she remained the only one being disappointed at his sudden departure, even though after what had happened, she didn't know how to talk to him either.
She sighed at her reflection and was about to turn to walk downstairs again, when she heard the unmistakable sound of heavy boots walking up the stairs. Seconds later, the object of her musings ducked through the door and in a sudden rush of embarrassment, she quickly turned back to the mirror, only to encounter his gaze reflected back at her.
She was mesmerized by the way his eyes held hers and didn't even notice that he stepped closer until she felt him at her back, gently enveloping her in his arms from behind.
He ran his lips over the side of her face and she closed her eyes in contentment, leaning back into his embrace with a sigh.
"I am sorry," he whispered into her hair and her eyes flew open.
What did he have to be sorry for?
"Joffrey wants to see you."
She shuddered violently and was at once reminded why things had felt different today. For a moment, for a few hours, she had felt safe, even though she should have known it was an illusion.
For a short moment, that cold, painful lump of constant fear that served as her heart these past months had ceased to exist, replaced by something pulsing, living and warm.
Dread wound like a cold serpent around her lungs, squeezing until she was sure she'd suffocate.
"I am sorry," he said again as she fought for breath, tried and failed to reach for the icy resolve she needed to face Joffrey.
"I do not want to go," she said through frozen lips, in a whisper that sounded small and broken as a child's plea even to her own ears. Never before had she dared voicing a wish like that.
He closed his eyes for a moment, his arms tightening around her.
"And I don't want to take you," he rasped.
There was a "but" in that sentence, she could hear it as if it was spoken.
But he had to take her, otherwise someone else would. Joffrey probably didn't even know Sandor had taken her away from the keep and should better not be made aware of the fact that she had been removed much farther from his influence than he had meant her to be.
Sandor would be in grievous danger if Joffrey decided to make a fuss about this, if she didn't appear as promptly as if she was still living in her chambers at the keep.
The thought finally gave her the strength she needed to face whatever lay ahead of her.
"Give me a minute to make myself presentable," she said, drawing herself up straight.
They locked gazes in the mirror but then he closed his eyes again.
"He'd likely want to see that you haven't been... treated too well," he said haltingly. "He might not expect me to have hit you, seeing as I've never have before, but…".
She nodded, composed now.
"Do what you think is needed," she said. Her voice sounded not her own, but then it never did in such situations.
As she was used to do, she tried to draw back from herself, hide somewhere where nothing and no one could hurt her. But within the safety of his arms, she did not feel in peril, did not quite feel the need to guard herself.
In horrified fascination, she watched as he slowly trailed his hands down her arms and wound his fingers around her wrists, gently, carefully. A lover's caress.
Then he lowered his head to her neck and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her skin, making her close her eyes and shudder with a completely different kind of feeling than the cold dread from before.
But as she was about to relax into him again, the fingers around her wrists closed tighter and tighter, like iron manacles. A brutal, crushing grip that was sure to leave angry marks once he released her again.
A very thin and small lament escaped her throat despite her best efforts to hold it in.
"I am sorry," he murmured against her neck and she could almost forget the pain in her wrists at the feeling of his lips on her, when suddenly she felt teeth sharply sinking into her flesh and the sting of blood being sucked to the surface of her skin, tiny blood vessels breaking to form a darkly purple biting mark no one could miss.
An overwhelming sense of betrayal forced tears to her eyes once again.
He looked at her when he was done and for once didn't hide behind his usual indifference.
Pain and sorrow clouded his eyes.
It was for Joffrey, she reminded herself to get rid of the stupid sense of being ill-used by the one who only ever sought to protect her.
This pain, this ugliness, this perversion of everything she had only seen a glimpse of this morning, hurt him as much as it hurt her.
That first time, she realized, had been like that as well.
For Joffrey. Her pain, her blood and her tears. For the one who could not get enough of either and might find it diverting to use the one man as a weapon against her who'd never so much as raised a hand to her.
Which meant, she realized with a start, that every moment of peace they found with each other, every moment of warmth and gentleness was a victory over Joffrey's cruelty.
She opened her eyes and searched his gaze in the mirror once again.
And then she smiled.
"Let's get this over with."
…
Sandor's hands were tight on Stranger's reins and as usual the beast reacted with capriciousness to his foul mood, acerbating his anger.
In front of him, Sansa sat sideways on his lap, distant and cold like the fucking Wall up north, despite the blinding smile she had given him a short while ago. He knew why she was drawing back like this, knew she was preparing herself for her "audience" by donning an armour that was as invisible as it was impenetrable. It had never really bothered him before, because he knew how vital it was for her to protect herself like this, but right now her remoteness chafed over his senses like a blunt file, made him want to snap and growl and bark at her until she reacted naturally again.
Before they had left, she had asked Betsy for an onion and had rubbed her eyes with it, which made her look as if she had done nothing but weeping her eyes out for the last few days.
Joffrey would be thrilled. Delighted by the marks of brutality Sandor had forced himself to inflict on her, overjoyed to see her misery and the evidence of tears.
He should be glad they were so well prepared, that they'd be fooling the boy so easily, but nothing of this sat well with him. For one thing because she was supposed to be his now. It should be him who decided where she went and why. Being commanded to present his woman to another man, king or not, enraged and insulted him on a primal level, just as the thought did that everyone would look at her and think he'd raped and brutalized her.
While he usually didn't give a flying shit about what people thought of him, there was a nagging feeling that this impression did not only demean him, but even more than that it demeaned her. Made a mockery of the bravery she had shown him, of her almost heroic determination to please him as well as she could and of the warmth and compassion with which she could treat even a monster like him.
…
Joffrey, as expected was all but crowing with delight.
To Sandor's ever growing anger, Joffrey had chosen to have Sansa brought to him in the throne room with at least two dozen onlookers assembled. Handpicked, as it seemed, ranging from maids and men-at-arms to high-ranking ladies and lordlings. With his choice of audience, Joffrey had effectively ensured that after this was over, Sansa's fate would be no secret anymore, however much the small council might wish it to be. Her downfall would be fodder for gossip in the kitchens and the barracks just as it would be in the chambers of lords and ladies.
Behind the throne, the small council stood trying to act as if it was an everyday occurrence to have an abused woman dragged to court to be utterly humiliated. Only Cersei looked somewhat green around the gills as if she dreaded whatever was to come and Pycelle stood looking at the ready, with a leather bag at his feet as if he expected his services to be needed.
With a sickening jolt Sandor realized why. Of course Joffrey would use this opportunity to determine whether or not his orders had been followed. He felt himself sway a bit at the thought that Joffrey would have her spread her legs and let Pycelle…
Something inside him roared with unleashed fury at the mere thought and it was only by holding his sword in a death grip that he managed to stay where he was, next to Trant with a prime view on what was going on.
He'd cut them all down, he swore to himself, before he let happen what Joffrey intended.
The only ones conspicuously absent from the spectacle were Queen Margery and Mace Tyrell. Loras too, now that he thought of it.
"Lady Sansa," Joffrey drawled and stood from the throne. "What a pleasure to see you again. How have you fared over the last week?"
Sansa kept her eyes on the ground and was visibly searching for words. He couldn't quite tell which of her actions were an act and which were genuine.
Her trick with the onion had astounded him, to be honest, and so had her insistence to wear a shawl haphazardly thrown around her neck to hide the bruise he had left, when the whole point had been for Joff to see it. She had also changed into a dress with rather long sleeves, albeit way too revealing for his taste in other regions, to cover the marks on her wrists.
Right now, she nervously tugged on those sleeves, and only after way too much thinking did it occur to Sandor that she meant to draw Joffrey's attention to them.
"Very well, your grace," she said with a waver in her voice, once again tugging at one sleeve.
Joffrey circled her for a moment and then quickly snatched one of her arms and lifted it. The wide sleeve fell back to reveal most of her lower arm, the blueish bruises standing out like a beacon on her otherwise unblemished white skin, their origin clear.
"Tsk, tsk," Joffrey said, shaking his head. "You'd better not lie to me, Lady Sansa."
The audience first gasped and then quieted again, the stares that hit him ranging from horrified to judgemental.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Sansa almost whispered. "It was my fault."
Joffrey's eyes glittered and his cheeks glowed pink. The little prick was enjoying this to the fullest and Sansa had known he would be even more pleased if he could make all the nasty discoveries himself.
Sandor couldn't count how often he'd seen Joff grow hard with excitement at Sansa's pain. Often enough it was the sign for him to call a halt to things, hoping Joff would be too occupied with beating off while he whisked Sansa away.
The king circled Sansa once more and then his eyes fell on the shawl draped over her shoulders. For a moment Sandor marvelled at her cleverness to place the piece of cloth just so that it would not look an adornment, but something worn to conceal.
With exaggerated slowness, Joffrey drew the silky thing away and let it flutter carelessly to the floor.
The onlookers in the front row gasped, those father behind craned their necks to see.
To Sandor's horror, the bruise looked considerably worse than he had intended it to. From the marks of his teeth, now looking red and inflamed, blood had seeped under her skin and instead of like a rather harmless lover's bite, it looked as if a savage beast had tried to gnaw off part of her neck.
A red-hot haze rose in him as the stares in his direction grew more vicious and he had to force his fury down again, hide behind cool detachment or otherwise he wouldn't be able to help her. Sansa wasn't the only one who had a role to play in this mummery.
Joffrey drew his fingertips over the mark almost lovingly, his eyes heavy-lidded.
"Maybe I should've warned you that dogs bite at times," he murmured.
"It barely hurt," Sansa said and blushed, clearly marking her words a lie for all to see.
Joffrey walked a slow half-circle around her once again and came to stand behind her back, caressing the bite-mark again.
"It's been done from here," he drawled. "From behind." Then he took Sansa's arm to look at her bruises there, his eyes gleaming while a lazy smile spread over his face as he matched his own fingers to the marks to see from which angle they had been caused.
Joffrey took a hissing breath when he closed his fingers, pressing them into the already bruised flesh. Sansa flinched a little, but made no sound. Joffrey stepped closer, his body almost flush against Sansa's backside, only a hand's breadth separating them.
"Tell me, Lady Sansa," Joffrey said close to Sansa's ear, his voice so low, the audience went eerily quiet to better understand every word being spoken. "Is this what dogs do to wolves? Is this how my hound fucked you?"
Sandor was tempted to close his eyes. To block out the stares for one thing, but even more than that to block out the sight of Sansa being once again at the mercy of this twisted little shit who got off on bringing her low. And on hurting her. To block out a sight that all but commanded him to take the five steps separating them and sinking his sword into the boy's gut.
Quite irrationally, he almost wished she would tell him the truth, that those injuries were fabricated to make a fool of him, that they'd never fucked like that (and never would, he swore to himself), that once this was over, they'd be laughing at his stupidity.
But as always when watching over her like this, he kept his eyes open, ground his teeth and balled his fist around the pommel of his sword, knowing he would be the one to end this eventually – one way or another.
"Yes… your Grace," Sansa whispered.
"I did not hear you, my lady," Joffrey said, walking away from her. "Can you repeat that? And make a whole sentence out of it, while you're at it."
"Yes," she said, louder this time, with a pitiful catch to her words. "That is how he… took me."
He should be proud of her, Sandor thought, that she could deceive the king so skilfully. He should not mind the stares and the whispers, should not be tempted to run over there and wrap her in his cloak to hide her from all those prying eyes feasting themselves on her pretended misery. He should not want to draw his sword and spread death and mayhem amongst those who gawked at her, who judged and whispered.
"Do you have any other... injuries that barely hurt?" Joffrey asked silkily. "Maybe I might revise my decision if I see that it was done in poor judgement."
Sansa swallowed and then lifted her eyes to Joffrey with a look so full of hope, it surprised Sandor with the cutting pain it sent through his intestines.
This was an act, wasn't it? She had to know Joffrey would not restore her to her former position if only she told him how badly she was treated. Even if she wanted to be rid of him, which he couldn't even fault her for, she had to know that this would not work in her favour.
Joffrey loved to play with people like this, get their hopes up before dashing them again.
"There are some... marks on my … legs," she said quietly, indicating her upper thighs with a nervous gesture and it was blindingly clear to everyone just what kind of marks she meant.
Marks left by a large man carelessly shoving himself between milky-white, satiny soft thighs, thrusting so brutally that she was black and blue afterwards.
Had he done this? He was inclined to think he hadn't, but he couldn't be sure, he had not looked at her afterwards, hadn't been able to even face her after behaving like a bloody green, lovesick fool who'd cried after his first fuck.
"Show me," Joff demanded, his voice just a husky whisper now.
Sure enough, the bulge in Joff's trousers spoke for itself, but the court's attention was on Sansa.
Sansa, who forgot her acting for a moment and looked at the king with horrified disgust.
Sandor was about to take a step forward, when hands clamped around his upper arms on either side of him.
"Can't ruin this for him, dog," Trant smirked at him. "We're to stop you whatever it takes."
On his other side, Kettleblack looked much more sourly but equally determined to make good on this threat.
As if those two idiots could really stop him.
"Joffrey, this is quite enough!"
All eyes turned to Cersei who had stepped from behind the throne, her cheeks blotchy.
"There is no need to embarrass the girl like that, she's been through enough."
Joffrey turned slowly, smiling amiably. Probably only a few people knew him well enough to see the tightening around the corners of his mouth that spoke of his anger at being thus interrupted.
Cersei blanched.
Joffrey turned to Kettleblack.
"Ser Osmund," he said, his artificial smile still in place. "My mother is clearly not used to such disturbing sights and very unsettled, please escort her to her chambers. She is to rest and restore her nerves at least until tomorrow and not allowed to leave her chambers sooner."
Kettleblack obediently went to Cersei who shot daggers at him from her eyes and made it clear she wished not to take his offered arm.
She stalked out of the room with her head held high, but Sandor knew her well enough to know from the way she walked that she was indeed deeply disturbed, just not in the way Joffrey had hinted at.
They had barely left, when the doors flew open again and the Queen herself stormed into the room in a gust of billowing silk, her brother and father following on her heels.
"My dear," Margery enthused, hands dramatically clasped over her heart. "I'm afraid I was not informed there was to be court today, I hope you'll forgive my tardiness."
Margery's eyes fell on Sansa and Sandor almost took another step forward at the look of pitying contempt she gave her.
You have nothing on her, he wanted to shout at Margery. She's twice the queen you will ever be, and a lot purer besides.
Joffrey's bright mood turned sour in a heartbeat. He knew well enough it wouldn't do to go through with what he intended with his wife looking on. The Tyrells were a force even Joffrey knew better than to have on his bad side.
"Lady Sansa," Joffrey said with clipped words that betrayed his displeasure. "Since you claim yourself that you have been treated well, I see no reason to go back on my word to Lord Clegane. You may go."
…
Before Sandor had a chance to reach Sansa, he found her suddenly encircled by the remaining members of the council.
Lannister and Baelish especially seemed determined to prevent him from getting any closer.
"We intend to speak to Lady Sansa in private," Baelish informed him, nose in the air as if that would make him in any way taller than he was.
"She's mine," Sandor growled, "I'll take her back."
"That remains to be seen," Lannister cut in. "This is a matter of the small council now."
"I will not..."
With a flick of his hand, Lannister summoned a couple of gold cloaks who stood with their hands on their swords but visibly uneasy. With good reason, too, Sandor thought, glowering at them.
Sadly, he couldn't risk a bloodbath right now, there had to be another way out of this.
"You heard the king," he said. "I don't think you want to cross him in this."
"The king will hear our opinion and surely see its wisdom," Baelish said.
Sandor grit his teeth.
Let's see what the king thinks about this, he thought.
With a last look at Sansa who looked back at him pleadingly, he turned and left.
...
tbc