AN; Thank you so much for all your kind reviews. Please not that this chapter has been altered from the original post (just ever so slightly). It seems I can never be happy with my own work

Sansa

In all her years Sansa knew Winterfell had never hosted such company. Everything had been in such a fuss leading up to the King's arrival, and it was all rather exciting. Sansa, with her Lady in tow, had trailed after her mother during her preparations, as she knew it one day rest on her to the same. That was, when she and Jeyne were not busy giggling in the courtyard while the men sparred.

Lady Catelyn would instruct with a gracious smile that only extended ever so slightly and nodded her head to every "Yes m'lady". Sansa had shadowed her mother, making sure not to smile too wide or nod too heavily. "One day, it will rest on you to rule a castle." Lady Catelyn said, taking one of Sansa's hands in her own. She smiled then - not the small courteous smile given to the help but one that reached her eyes - and told her daughter that she was proud.

That evening as she was preparing for bed and Jeyne sat brushing out her tangles she said in her Lady's voice: "Jeyne, do you use the good brush, and please be quick about it." Jeyne had walked out after that and so she'd brushed her own hair, for lack of a bedmaid and a friend. Sansa had found it hard to sleep that night, and restless she had crawled from her bed, drawn her furs close and tip toed to the lower rooms she knew to be Jeyne's.

When the column had finally arrived with the King and the Queen and the Princes and Princess Sansa fidgeted nervously. A Lady does not fidget, she told herself. And so flattened her hands against her skirts and stilled, as her septa would be happy to know.

She saw reams of colour as the bannermen, both Baratheon and Lannister, trot through the courtyard. They stopped short, barely a stones throw from her. Each wore such beautifully gilded armor, and even their mounts looked impressive with cloth of gold hanging loosely from polished reins.

And then she saw him, the noise of the courtyard somehow dimmed as she gazed. The Prince had nearly taken the breath from her. She smiled, despite herself, as he rode in. Mother would not have smiled so, she would have looked on as a Lady should. But he was so handsome with milky skin and golden hair. She felt her heart beat in its cage and willed it to still. He looks out of a song, as a Prince should, Sansa had thought. And then he smiled! He looked directly at her and parted such beautiful lips to smile upon her. The heartbeat in her chest was nothing compared to the dancing of her stomach; she feared the whole North might hear the war raging inside her.

The Prince was much better than the King, to be sure. Sansa had been thick with disappointment when she'd first seen him (and many times since). She had heard so many stories of Robert Baratheon. The Stag King, having won his crown but lost his lady love, was made of imposing strength and a face a maiden could sleep sweetly thinking on.

He is fat, she thought, as she made to bend the knee gracefully. Kings were not supposed to be fat. They were meant to look kingly. His beard was too wiry and too unkempt and great crows feet circled his eyes. Her disappointment had extended farther, then, when she heard him speak. Kings should be courteous, she frowned. But then he told her she was pretty and half the weight was gone.

The Queen was more beautiful than she'd imagined in her rich furs and dress. She envied her golden hair for a moment as she watched it catch the light as she stepped from her great wheelhouse. It really is as gold. She curtsied her best, sinking low as she passed.

That morning Sansa had begged and pleaded with Septa Mordane to allow their little party to take their sewing outside. Sansa and Jeyne Poole sat together, comparing needlework.

"I can't seem to get my stitches straight today." Sansa complained. It was a rare thing, really, for her work to be anything short of perfect.

"Perhaps you're a little distracted?" Jeyne teased. Sansa blushed furiously looking back down at the small rope of flowers she was working on. Jeyne, of course, had the right of it. Though Sansa would never admit to such childish truths.

The Princes and their company were sparring with her brothers Robb and Bran. Sansa, Jeyne, Beth Cassel and Arya, Sansa's younger sister, sat on weirwood benches in eyesight of the training yard. The little Prince, Tommen, was heavily padded and Bran was running circles around him, his blunted sword landing true with each hit. Prince Joffrey was hanging back, a scowl worrying at his handsome face and his sworn shield ever at his side.

"Who is Prince Joffrey to spar with?" Sansa asked.

"Sansa dear, I've never seen green roses." Septa Mordane peered over her needlework wearing an unfamiliar look of disappointment. It seemed she'd forgotten to change her thread and from her newly started vine a green rose did spring. She tutted and Arya smiled widely.

"I knew this was a foolish idea from the first moment. Why, Arya has done better work than you today Sansa!" the Septa chastised. It was untrue, of course. Arya was hopeless at needlework and was watching the boys just as much as she. "Come, inside. No more of this nonsense."

Resigned, Sansa allowed herself to be ushered inside. Daringly, she shot another glance at Prince Joffrey. He paid her little mind and it made her heart sink. Today it seemed his interest in her was waning. Had she just imagined that he'd smiled at her before? and did that mean she had just stood and smiled at him like some sort of fool? Perhaps she could sew herself a motley and dance upon her hands.

She tore her eyes from him, and glanced at his shield, briefly. Arya had whispered to her of the man called the Hound.

"He's ugly." She'd said. Sansa had sighed especially loud, for lack of Arya's decency "His face is all twisted and melted."

He truly was terrible to behold: taller by a head than most men, with broad shoulders and sharp, angry features crueler than the edge of a dagger. Yet that was not the worst - half his face was ravaged, red and twisted and set into a permanent snarl, just as her sister had said, but in no way she had imagined.

The man turned his eyes on her and Sansa, unbidden, heard herself inhale. His face twitched and both sides mirrored each other in an ugly grimace. She looked to her feet quickly, her stomach turning, and made her way quickly into the castle.

AN; For those of you who wish my chapters were longer I beg a little patience. Soon the length will double, and then nearly triple, but the pace is rather slow right now. Let us just say that there is a lot to look forward too (for myself, to write - and for you, to hopefully enjoy).

Lastly, the little green rose bit is a bit of an Alexandrian Footnote in reference to my favourite childhood author, Gail Carson Levine and her 'Ella Enchanted'.