Chapter 23: Poisoning
After a whole day of rest, Sandor had felt it prudent to go up to the keep to give at least the impression he cared about his duties, only to find he wasn't missed at all.
Loras seemed to be back in Joff's good graces, shadowing him wherever the boy went, just as Sandor had before and thus Sandor was once again left to his own devices. Which suited him rather well.
Making sure not to cross Cersei's path, who surely would not too happy about him shirking his duties, he took Stranger from the stables on the pretence of exercising the truly rather restless horse and made his roundabout way back home.
As usual, his route led him to an inn not far from the harbour, where he stabled Stranger and went in for a quick ale, then out the back door and via a maze of crowded alleys to where he wanted to be.
...
At stepping foot inside his home, he found himself disappointed at Sansa's absence, but the fact was almost made up for by the mouth-watering aroma coming from the kitchen.
On quiet feet, he snuck up on Betsy who was busy over pots and pans.
"Mhmm, Betsy, what's that I am smelling?"
Betsy, not in the least disconcerted at his sudden appearance, lightly slapped at his hand as it reached for the pot that emanated the heavenly smell.
"You'll have to wait to see, my lord," she said, her manner a bit lacking in respect.
Despite being thus thwarted, he grinned a little to himself at the girl's audacity.
"That's right, just let me starve to death in my own house," he grumbled and Betsy rolled her eyes.
"Lady Sansa is awaiting you upstairs, she needs your opinion."
Sandor gave a put upon sigh. While he liked the way Sansa had turned the house into a true home, he felt in no particular mood to be asked his opinion on yet another piece of decoration.
He trudged up the stairs and opened the door to the bedroom, only to be rewarded with a stunning sight.
Sansa stood in front of the mirror, looking like a vision from the heavens, breath-taking and splendid.
Clad in a dress of sky-blue silk, perfectly matching the colour of her eyes, the edges trimmed with silver borders, embroidered with tiny pearls and silver thread, even the queen couldn't have rivalled her in elegance and beauty. The necklace he'd given her was resplendently displayed on her slightly too deeply cut cleavage, the rubies in the wolf's eyes sparkling as if the tiny beast had come alive on her skin.
Her hair had at first appeared just to be loose, but at closer inspection, he could see it was carefully styled to highlight its natural beauty while still displaying jewels and adornments and speaking of the services of a maid who knew what she was doing.
"What do you think?" Sansa asked, turning to him skirts swishing and a beatific smile on her face.
At the moment, thinking was nearly impossible, as he was pretty sure his jaw had dropped to the floor.
"You look…you look beautiful," he managed. "You look like a queen."
Sansa smiled even more brightly.
"Good, that's what I was going for."
He took a tentative step closer and reached out carefully to gently run his fingers over the soft material that flowed so enticingly over her body, suddenly unsure if he was still allowed to touch the ethereal beauty in front of him.
"What's the occasion?"
"The letter Eric brought me yesterday was an invitation from the Lady Olenna," Sansa explained. "She expresses her wish to see me tomorrow at the feast and as she put it 'would not be averse to you appearing in the company of a certain Kingsguard'."
"Thought you'd never want to be at court again after last time?"
"I thought about it, but I decided that I gave everyone very much the wrong impression last time and I mean to rectify that."
She stepped to him and ghosted a light kiss over his lips.
"I mean to show Joffrey how happy his decision has made me. I mean to show everyone that they have it all wrong."
She lifted her arms then and he thought she meant to twirl for him in her dress like little girls were wont to do, but as her long sleeves that almost reached the floor unfolded, he noticed that the trim of her sleeves didn't quite match the rest of the dress. The border was woven from yellow-golden thread and embroidered with tiny black dogs.
Sansa Stark was about to wear the Clegane sigil to court. He had not yet managed to give her his cloak, but she had found a way to carry his colours anyway.
"Don't you think that might be a trifle dangerous?" he asked around the lump in his throat.
"I am done pretending, Sandor," she said, eyes sparkling with a bravery so mighty he found himself craving a piece of it. "I am done suffering for the delight of others. I am done living in fear of what might or might not happen. If I am to go down, I will do so as a Stark should, with my head held high and a smile on my lips.
"Besides" she continued, stroking his cheek as if to placate him, "with Olenna Tyrell as guest of honour, Joffrey cannot do anything. He's the one on trial here for what he did to the queen, he has to be on his very best behaviour."
He let his eyes roam over her again, took in her upright posture, the raised chin, her victorious smile, her radiance that came from self-confidence and determination and her heart-rending, breath-stopping beauty.
It was humbling to think that this woman was his, that it was at his arm she would be walking into the throne room tomorrow, that it was him everyone would see having a claim to this creature next to whom every other woman paled in comparison.
His heart filled with something that squeezed the air out of his lungs as it clamoured to be set free, to be acknowledged, spoken. To be declared as the one fundamental truth that had been between them for so long he could not even remember it ever being otherwise.
"I love you."
Her eyes filled and tears clung to her lashes like morning dew. With one step, she closed the space between them and put both her hands on his chest.
"And I love you," she said, favouring him with a courageous smile.
She kissed him then and soon enough they carefully peeled her out of her dress and him out of his armour and only much later remembered that Betsy was probably waiting for them to come down to dinner.
…
At the day of the feast, Sansa found herself once again on her way to the Red Keep, somewhat jittery with nerves but determined not to hide behind her armour of coldness anymore.
Sandor had insisted on some downright ridiculous cloak-and-dagger scenario to get her into the keep; face blackened with soot and her dress and jewellery carefully wrapped and carried by Eric and Betsy who accompanied her.
She was to get dressed and ready for the feast in Sandor's chambers, where a gigantic bathtub filled with scented, hot water waited for her. But instead of sharing it with Sandor as she quietly suggested to him, she found herself being unceremoniously undressed and shoved into the tub by an impatient and nervous Betsy while Sandor went Gods knew where with Eric.
Betsy proceeded to scrub her raw and then pamper her with sweet-smelling concoctions and oils Sansa wasn't even aware she had in her possession. She would not have put it past both Sandor and Betsy to have secretly conspired to buy all those things.
The styling of her hair took a small eternity and Betsy only stopped fussing over her dress after Sansa had told her to, but all that effort was rewarded when Sandor came back.
He appeared just as awestruck at her sight as he had been the first time, his speechlessness a much more valuable compliment than all the empty words she would no doubt hear aplenty before this day was over.
"I'll never know what I did to deserve you," he murmured into her ear after he reverently kissed her cheek and had taken a whiff of the perfume on her neck.
"Remind me to explain that to you in great detail... tonight," she whispered back, well aware of Betsy watching them like a hawk lest they would accidentally ruin the careful arrangement of Sansa's hair.
He drew himself up to his full, impressive height and then offered her his arm with a perfect courtly bow.
Sansa smiled.
"You look rather breath-taking yourself, my lord," she said when she took his arm.
His armour was polished to a shine, his hair washed and oiled and meticulously combed, his face freshly shaven. His cloak billowed behind him snowy white; quite a dramatic contrast to the deep blue of her dress. She was glad to be at least tall enough not to look like a midget next to him and convinced they were being quite a sight.
Silvery grey glittered and sparked at her words and the corner of his mouth curled with quiet amusement and something like pride.
"Quit your chirping, little bird," he said, but there was no irritation in his tone and a smile in his eyes and she was suddenly struck with the realization how much had changed in only a couple of weeks.
…
As she had foreseen, they turned quite a few heads when they walked towards the queen's ballroom where the feast was being held but the gawking of men-at-arms and smallfolk were nothing compared to the moment when they made their entrance into the ballroom.
Most of the guests were already assembled, some already seated, others milling around and talking in small groups. Servants flitted this way and that for last minute preparations.
Joffrey sat next to Margery at the high table, greeting the arriving guests.
A hush fell over the assembled crowd after people noticed them and soon enough it was so quiet, one could've heard a needle falling as one after the other, all heads turned into their direction.
Sansa could feel every individual pair of eyes on her, as she made her way across the room on Sandor's arm, could almost hear the questions, the accusations. Could see them in the looks she received at which she smiled more brightly.
My suffering earned nothing but your pity, she thought, feeling not trace of shame at flaunting what people thought an illicit relationship, my happiness earns me your scorn and contempt. I'll take the latter, thank you very much.
A quick look at Sandor informed her that he'd donned his mask of unperturbed calm, although the tightness around his lips told her how much he detested to be under so much public scrutiny.
By the time they came to a halt in front of Joffrey, the king's usually fat, wormy lips had been pressed into a thin, bloodless line, the corners of his mouth white with rage, his eyes shooting bolts of hatred.
Sansa curtsied deeply, making sure to display her somewhat risqué cleavage to the best effect. As a "fallen woman" she didn't have to cling too closely to the dictates of propriety.
"Lady Sansa," Queen Margery said with a smile that was as bloodless as her husband's lips. "How nice to see you again. I hope you're well?"
"Very much so, your Grace," Sansa answered with a bright smile, inclining her head and folding her arms in a way that showed her sleeves and their trimming. "Lord Clegane has been a most… attentive host, who did not leave any of my wishes… unsatisfied."
A unison gasp could be heard and then a buzzing of enraged whispers, but Sansa paid it no mind, because at that moment, Sandor turned to her fully, the mask vanished and gave her smile that was as broad as it was wicked and she felt herself swaying a bit towards him with the sudden wish to kiss that smile, to follow up on the delightful promise in his eyes.
She caught herself just in time and turned to Margery again.
"I will be eternally grateful to his Grace for his wise and generous decision."
Joffrey looked as if in the process of grinding his back teeth to dust, while Sansa expressed her thanks with another deep curtsey.
The master of ceremonies stiffly gestured for them to follow his lead to where she was to be seated. It would be a place below the salt, of course, but Sansa could not care less. The expression on Joffrey's face, the looks she received from all around her made her feel as if she had just won not only a battle, but the whole war.
Quickly, she scanned the high table for the other members of the royal family and the council.
Cersei looked at her as if seeing her for the first time and Sansa could've sworn she'd seen a mix of surprise and envy on her face. Lady Olenna gave her an encouraging smile and Lord Baelish looked as if he had just eaten a particular sour piece of fruit.
Sandor was just about to help her take her seat, when Loras came up to them.
He didn't spare her a glance or offered her as much as a greeting, but addressed Sandor immediately.
"Lord Clegane," he said urgently. "There is an incident on the training yard that requires your attention."
He's lying, Sansa thought with alarm. This was clearly a ploy to get Sandor away from her side for whatever purpose and it made her feel increasingly uneasy. Sandor, too, seemed to be aware of the nature of Loras' request and hesitated.
"Do I need to clear this with the king?" Loras asked.
Sandor looked at her. She knew he could not get out of this without causing a fuss and while she had had provocation in mind when she appeared here, this was about the whole extend of it.
She nodded her consent to the question in his eyes.
"Don't let me keep you," she said out loud. "I am sure I'll be perfectly fine until your return."
…
Despite her anxiety, the feast progressed without any more disturbances. As Sansa had expected, one dish followed the other in rapid succession, each more wildly imaginative than the other. Ser Boros, red-faced but determined, took a bite from every dish put in front of the king, regardless whether Joff was actually eating it or not and took a swig from every new bottle of wine that was brought.
In between courses, bards were called upon for entertainment, fools were supposed to make the guests laugh and a few acrobats from Essos showed off their ability to distort their bodies in alarming ways. The latter made Sansa silently amuse herself with the thought which other uses one could get out of such agility.
Sandor, to her ever growing alarm, did not come back.
As Joffrey rose for a speech, he still wasn't there, even though Loras had come back some time ago.
"I will not keep you from enjoyment of this feast for long," Joff began, rousing grateful applause, "but I want to take the opportunity to express my happiness at being blessed with such a beautiful, graceful woman as a wife and my thanks to her family for their continued and unfailing support."
The Tyrells smiled benevolently and only Margery looked as if it was an effort.
"My queen, may I ask you to share this goblet of wine with me as a symbol of our love and the holiness of our marriage?"
Margery stood, took the goblet from Joffrey and drank from it.
"Oh my!" Lady Olenna exclaimed, drawing all attention to her. "I think this is too much for my poor old heart, can someone please escort me to take some fresh air?"
Scowling, Mace Tyrell rose from his seat and offered his arm to his mother, but in the end had to half carry the old woman outside.
It seemed curious to Sansa, why a woman who seemed sprightly enough and had just braved and arduous journey without any complaints - according to Sandor's account - should suddenly feel faint at hearing some rehearsed and trivial niceties.
Joffrey's smile had turned noticeably more artificial at the interruption, but he nonetheless took the goblet from Margery and took a long swallow himself.
He smacked his lips when he was done and raised the goblet, obviously to say something, but no words came from his throat. Even before anyone else even knew what was going on, Cersei shot from her seat with a high-pitched wail.
"Joffrey!"
The king's face turned red as he turned his head to his mother and his eyes bulged with panic as he, too, realized what closed his throat.
Wine spilled on the floor as the goblet fell from Joff's hands which he used to clutch at his throat, fighting for breath, while Cersei screamed for help at the top of her lungs.
Joffrey fought for his life for endless, agonizing minutes, his face turning from red to purple and the whites of his eyes blood-red. Cersei's wail rent the air and cut like a knife through Sansa's heart as Joffrey finally stopped struggling and went limp in his mother's grip.
Around her, people who had stared and gawked before, suddenly were dispersing in all directions, everyone apparently suddenly remembering that they had to be elsewhere. Soon, the room was empty save for the royal family, a few members of the council, stunned looking kingsguards and her.
She slowly walked to the high table, unsure of what she should do.
Cersei had calmed, it seemed. She cradled Joffrey in her arms like a babe, rocking him back and forth with a smile on her face that was serene and almost happy.
"My boy," she whispered in endless repetition. "My beautiful, darling boy."
Sansa might have had no love for Joffrey; no, she hated him and thought she'd be happy if he died, but seeing Cersei's tearless, mindless pain still brought tears to her eyes and compelled her to step closer, to offer comfort even though it surely would not be wanted.
As she stood in front of them and was about to crouch down, Cersei's eyes went up to hers, sad and clear and full of something Sansa thought was regret until it quickly transformed into a weird urgency.
"Fly, little dove," Cersei said, something wild and panicked in her eyes. "You have to flee!"
Instinct taking over before her mind had even started processing what had been said, Sansa turned and did as she had been advised.
Pulling her skirts up in her fists, she turned and shoved her way through the onlookers, tearing through the room and out of the doors, frantically looking for Sandor in the midst of her aimless flight.
Strong hands suddenly clamped around her arms, stopping her and for the shortest of instances her heart soared, hoping it was him, only to be dreadfully disappointed when she was faced with two men she didn't know.
"Lady Sansa," one of them said. "We've been ordered to escort you to the small council."
…
As last time, she was offered a seat and refreshments after her captors had delivered her to her destination.
Unlike last time, she declined both.
While she was indeed in the small council's chambers, only Lord Baelish, Lady Olenna and Mace Tyrell were in attendance, which furthered her sense of impending doom. Not surprisingly, Lady Olenna looked far from the brittle old lady she had mimed just a few minute ago.
"I have to protest the manner in which I was brought here against my expressed wishes," she said haughtily.
Lord Baelish smiled amiably.
"Even a lady as highborn as you are can be summoned by the small council," he said softly. "Don't you agree?"
Far from being inclined to agree, Sansa grit her teeth.
"What is it the small council wants from me?" she asked instead.
"The small council," Baelish began, folding his hands in front of him with a cloyingly sweet smile, "has come to an agreement regarding your future."
"I believe the king has made his wishes regarding my future very clear," Sansa retorted, sickeningly aware of the fact that the king lay dead in his mother's arms.
Baelish smiled in a way that made her stomach turn.
"The king," he said slowly, clearly relishing what he was about to say, "is dead."
So it was you, she thought and then her gaze fell to the Lady Olenna, who did not look in the least bothered by Baelish's clear enjoyment of this particular announcement. All of you.
On the heel of that thought came another, far more disturbing one as Littlefinger started to circle her as if she was a trapped deer and he the predator about to tear into her.
I am the price they paid to save Margery. He helped them kill Joffrey and was promised me as reward.
She wanted to weep, to explain and beg. She wanted to throw herself at their feet and ask for mercy, for understanding.
She knew she would get none. Not from those cold-eyed people whose only concern was to save their own blood, and not from him who wanted to own her out of an obsession that was as disgusting as it was dangerous and out of a hunger for power that knew no bounds.
So she just raised her chin and declared, "You will regret this, all of you. A king's blood is on your hands and this crime will not go unpunished."
"A bastard's blood," Lady Olenna said superciliously. "And don't you tell me you grieve for Joffrey."
"I do not," she said. "He killed my whole family, he had me tortured and humiliated and intended even worse. To know him dead is a relief. But I would have preferred to have him be judged and found guilty instead of murdered in an act of greed and cowardice."
Lady Olenna snorted.
"You Northerners will not learn, will you?" she said, lifting her head. "You father was killed by this foolish sense of honour and so was your brother. If you want to follow in their steps, go right ahead, it's no longer any concern of mine, you are Lord Baelish's charge now."
"I do not go with him of my free will, just so you know," she said, desperately trying to mask her rising panic. "Should anything happen to me, there is the one who will hound you for it to the depths of the Seven Hells. All of you."
Mace Tyrell looked vaguely alarmed, but Lady Olenna just gave her a smile heavily laced with contempt.
"Letting a dog sleep in your bed makes him lose his bite. Didn't you know that?" Then she turned to her son, lifting her nose. "Come on, I've no intention of catching flees."
With that, both Tyrells turned and walked out of the door, leaving her in the sole company of Littlefinger.
"Don't listen to the old biddy," Baelish said, stroking her cheek. "She just speaks from envy."
Sansa turned her face away and stepped back from him.
"Let me go."
"No," he said, eyes glinting, as he stepped closer once again. "Your hound once dared me to take you away from him and I did. I will not give you up, Cat, I just won't."
He leaned in, raising himself on tiptoes to reach her.
Remembering something Sandor had once told her, she grabbed his head with both hands, drew her head back to get some momentum and rammed it forward again so her forehead collided heavily with Littlefinger's nose.
Her head rang a bit afterwards, but she was rewarded with a satisfying crunch as Baelish's nasal bone broke and she took a hasty step back to save her dress when blood spurted copiously out of his nose.
Only shortly observing her success, she turned on her heel and ran to the door, opened it and barrelled out, only to be stopped again by the two men from before who had guarded the door.
"SANDOR!" she screamed, while trying to wind herself out of the men's grip, kicking at their shins to get them to release her. "SANDOR!"
"He will not come," Baelish said darkly if a bit nasally, while ineffectively dabbing at his still bleeding nose. "I made sure of it."
She refused to give up that easily.
They dragged her away, still kicking and screaming, until at some point a blinding pain short through her from the back of her head and a dark curtain fell over her world.
...
tbc