Sansa sat with Sandor in his tiny room, the torch flame providing the background noise as Sansa relayed every detail of the past few days that she had been away from the Sept. The light enhanced the depth of his scars, turning shallows into rivers marking his cheek and she marveled at how something so gruesome could seem so profound. Two cups of water sat between them, Sandor fisted his while Sansa's fingers drummed on the wooden table as she told him everything.
The pier jutting into the ocean provided a serene spot to play Sansa's favorite game of pretend. She watched as the merchant ships sailed in and out of the nearby docks, their bright white sails billowing in the wind and their wooden hulls plagued with pale barnacles. Maybe one day she would be brave enough to board a ship like the ones in the bay and they could take her far away from her gilded nightmare.
"That one's carrying silks back to Dorne, except the captain will have enough of the nobles need for expensive wine and choose to stay in Dorne for the winter where it is always warm." Sansa stated, pointing out a larger ship further in the distance heading across the Narrow Sea with pale blue sails and a sea green mermaid as its figure head. Shae snorted her derision.
"I don't want to play this game. I don't get the point." Shae complained, quickly fanning her face with her hand. It was an unusually warm day for autumn day but Sansa still wore her heavy Winterfell gowns. She had lost her taste for the southron styles.
"You've got to invent a story about where the ship is going and why." Sansa replied.
"Why should I make up a story when I know the truth?" Lady Stark exhaled with her eyes fixed on the ships bathed in a brilliant purple with a black designed etched into its hull.
"Because the truth is either terrible or boring."
Behind her Lord Baelish approached, breathing out his thinly disguised courtesies. He excused himself from Ros, the main whore who helped him run his brothel, and she sat down with Shae some yards away from the nobles, conversing quietly.
Sansa barely listened to Lord Baelish as he gave more concrete details to his proposition of stealing her away from the city with him. He could barely tell her where he was being sent or when, but that she would be safer in his company. It was a lie that Sansa was almost forced to believe if not for the Silent Brother that waited for her in Baelor's Sept. Baelish gave her hand a quick yet slimy kiss and left, the red-haired Ros following closely behind him. I am so tired of pleasantries.
When the two ladies returned to Lady Stark's chamber, a bath was prepared for Sansa to freshen up after her morning by the sea. Sansa's hair fell in tangles across her shoulders, the smell of salt and sun clinging to its tendrils. The hot water lapping at her naked body brought back memories of the hot springs of Winterfell and how she and her siblings would swim in them during the summer snows. She submerged her head, letting her fiery hair drift on the surface and small bubbles floated from her nostrils.
After washing her hair and body, Sansa dressed herself in a modest purple gown in the fashion of the North that complimented her Tully hair, which Shae was diligently brushing to make it gleam and shine. As the maid pulled tight the laces on her dress, a gentle rapping came from her door. Sansa nodded for the visitor to be let in as she reached behind her back to tie the last bow on the laces herself.
It was Ser Loras, come to invite Lady Sansa to lunch with the Tyrell women on behalf of his sister, Lady Margaery, and their grandmother, the Lady Olenna Tyrell. Sansa was delighted to have the opportunity to spend time with other noble ladies, especially ones with such high standing as the Tyrells. Though Margaery made her feel slightly threatened by her beauty and less than modest dress, she had heard grand tales of her unending kindness, especially the latest of her visit to the orphanage in Flea Bottom. Lady Olenna, however, was a mystery to Sansa but she was eager to meet the leading lady of House Tyrell.
She gave a pleasant nod to Shae and went to link her arm through Ser Loras who lead her down the stairwell and to the garden. In the last days of the long summer the red roses were in full bloom in the towering bushes that lined the pathway as if to dare the coming winter to destroy their splendor. Sansa had a hard time appreciating their beauty in comparison to the Knight of the Flowers. She shied away from conversation with blushes and muttered courtesies, wondering if he still remembered the day of the tourney when he presented a red rose, such as those that surrounded them, as his favor.
When she found her courage and reminded Ser Loras of the Hand's Tourney, he seemed almost confused. She probed and reminded him, but even his assurance seemed false. She groaned and decided to give up, realizing that to the mind of naïve girl, a favor meant the world, especially the favor of such a handsome and renowned knight such as Ser Loras. But to the knight himself, it meant nothing at all, just another flower he was obligated to give to a worthless noble girl when his true favor lied elsewhere.
When they reached the patio, tables were set all around with other ladies mulling around, servants standing to the side in constant waiting should they be needed. Lady Margaery came and took Sansa from her brother and led her to the center of the patio where a single chair stood, an elderly woman with her hair covered in a beautiful blue headdress. Though she was aged many years, her demeanor gave her a sort of demure beauty.
"Lady Sansa, I have the pleasure of introducing you to my grandmother, the Lady Olenna Tyrell." She stated. Lady Olenna reached her hand out. "Kiss me, child." She demanded, and Sansa obliged the woman, kissing the emerald ring that sat on the lady's middle finger. She smelled of roses.
The ladies exchanged pleasantries and apologies at the death of their deceased family members, with Sansa realizing just how sharp tongued Lady Olenna was in her old age.
"Are you hungry, child? We have lemon cakes."
Sansa smiled in response. "Lemon cakes are my favorite."
"So I've been told." Sansa never had the pleasure of knowing either of her grandmothers, but Lady Olenna was just the kind of woman Sansa imagined her own grandmothers would have been like, especially grandmother Stark; sharp-tongued but kind, cold but beautiful. A serving boy came to help the elder Tyrell out of her seat and into an elaborate tent set up at the far end of the garden with a singular table set with milk tea and finger cakes.
Unexpectedly, Lady Olenna brought up the subject of Joffrey, imploring Sansa to reveal all the details about the boy's personality to them. "Now, I want you to tell me the truth about this royal boy, this Joffrey."
Terrified, Sansa could not find the words to cover the lie and began to stutter. "I-I-"
"You, you. Who else would know better? We've heard some troubling tales. Is there any truth to them? Has this boy mistreated you? Has he ripped out your tongue?" She snapped when Sansa failed to answer her.
"Jof- King Joffrey, he, His Grace is very fair and handsome and as brave as a lion." Sansa blurted, hoping the women would buy the lie.
"Yes, all Lannisters are lions. And when a Tyrell farts it smells like a rose. But how kind is he, how clever? Does he have a good heart, a gentle hand?" Lady Olenna pressed her, the kind voice that flowed from her like honey softening her reserve.
Lady Margaery chimed in, her lithe voice a comfort. "I'm to be his wife, I only want to know what that means."
Before she had a chance to answer, the serving boy came with the lemon cakes, placing a slice in front of each woman, Lady Olenna sending him out for her cheese. As he left, Sansa let out the breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Are you frightened child? No need for that, we're only women here. Tell us the truth. No harm will come to you."
"My father always told the truth."
"Yes, he had that reputation. And they named him traitor and took his head." The tone in her voice spoke to her admiration for her father.
"Joffrey. Joffrey did that." Her teeth ground at the memory. "He promised he'd be merciful and he cut my father's head off and he said that was mercy. And he took me up on the walls and made me look at it." Sansa choked back the tears that threatened to spill over. She regretted that horrid day when she had thought of pushing Joffrey over the edge of the bridge. She should've pushed him and been rid of him once and for all. It would not bring her father back but it might have alleviated the pain she felt at the loss of her father and her imprisonment. It had been Sandor Clegane to stop her and a twang of anger bubbled inside her.
Lady Olenna's voice startled her out of her rage induced daydream. "Go on."
This was wrong. She shouldn't have said those things. "I-I can't, I n-never, meant, my father was a traitor, my brother as well, I have traitors blood, please don't make me say any more."
"She's terrified grandmother, just look at her." Margaery pleaded, casting Sansa a pitied look.
"Speak freely child, we would never betray your confidence, I swear it." Lady Olenna reached a withered hand out and grasped Sansa's, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
It took a few fleeting seconds to try and still her hammering heart and slow her quickened breath before looking between the two women, lips trembling, "He's a monster."
Their reaction took her by surprise. She had just told them that Margaery's betrothed was one of the worst men alive in Westeros yet neither woman seemed the bit disturbed at this turn of events.
"Huh, that's a pity." The elder Tyrell woman stated while Margaery gave her a look that said that this might just be no more than a minor inconvenience, popping a grape into her mouth.
"Please don't stop the wedding." Sansa begged, not wishing to be the cause of any disturbance in Joffrey's plans, lest she take the brunt of his fury. Though she feared for Margaery's safety, there was no evidence that Joffrey would act against her due to her immense beauty. Sansa, on the other hand… well, she was expendable now.
"Humph, have no fear. The lord oaf of Highgarden is determined that Margaery shall be queen. Even so, we thank you for the truth." Lady Olenna gave Sansa's hand a pat. "Oh look, here's my cheese." The serving boy returned and the Tyrell women indulged in the delights set before them but Sansa had lost her appetite and politely declined. She sat for the rest of the luncheon in relative silence.
As Sansa relayed all of this information to Sandor, she had zoned off, staring into the flame of the torch, never noticing when he had stood up halfway through her tale and began pacing around the tiny cell of a room.
"I don't trust those Tyrell women. There's something off about them." Sandor growled, wringing his hands. The burnt side of his face was twitching in anger at the audacity of Lady Olenna prying such information out of Sansa who was visibly shaken at revealing Joffrey's true identity. Even now just speaking the words her eyes involuntarily flitted about the room, wary of any strange ears taking heed.
Sansa nodded in affirmation, taking a long sip of water to quench her dry throat. "I did find out that the wedding will take place within the month. The king and bride are going through their fittings and the Throne Room is being decorated for the occasion; lions and roses everywhere." Sansa mumbled, fidgeting in her seat. Speaking of Joffrey, she knew she should head back to the Red Keep before she was missed. She had been making daily trips to the Sept and someone was bound to start asking questions. To be quite honest, she was surprised no one had asked any questions already. It had been over two weeks since she started making daily pilgrimages to the Great Sept and she never took a palanquin.
"Little bird, you need to make sure your things are fully ready. Cloths, salves from the maesters, if you need it, have it stored away in a safe place. I'll not have you being found out before we leave." He ordered, sitting back down across from her.
"I understand. I really must be going. It must be near nightfall outside and the guards will be looking for me. I have a curfew now; no going out after dark."
"Aye, better be getting along then." He rose and ushered her out, his large hand placed on the small of her back the entire way up to the central hallway. It was a more intimate gesture than Sansa was used to but it provided so much comfort that her life had been lacking since she left Winterfell and she willingly leaned back into his hand to feel the warmth.
Outside the sun was fully hidden, dark purples and blues dominating the sky. Shae was waiting in her normal spot and rushed to her. It was far more dangerous to walk through the city at night and they had to hurry. Not having the chance to say goodbye to Sandor, the women rushed through the empty streets, Shae's hand hovering over the blade she kept strapped to her thigh.
Both women felt uneasy at the deserted streets. Even at night there were always drunks slobbering from tavern to tavern and street urchins running about trying to catch cats for their supper. But tonight there were no people to be seen.
"I don't like this." Shae stated, taking a full circled glance around her. As they neared Fishmonger Square, the silence broke to the sound of clamoring steel, the sound of armed men walking towards them with their voices growing louder. Goldcloaks, Sansa thought. She was not supposed to be outside of the castle after dark and if she was caught, Joffrey would hear about it and have her beaten if she was lucky. Both of them broke into a sprint heading towards Aegon's High Hill but as they rounded a corner, two pairs of arms reached out from the alley and grabbed the pair of them.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here? The Stark she-wolf and her Lorathi bitch." A rough voice spit into Sansa's ear. It was not the Goldcloaks as she had thought. It was Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard. Joffrey already knew she was missing.
"What were you praying for, Lady Sansa?" Joffrey sneered down at her. Sansa was alone on the cold marble floor of the Throne room, her dress ripped off her shoulders and new bruises covering her face and arms. Joffrey always hit first and asked questions later. It ensured that she comply with his wishes honestly.
"I was praying for the Seven to bless your wedding, Your Grace, as well as a healthy son for you and Lady Margaery." Sansa sobbed as she tried to hold the shreds of her gown to her bare chest.
"You've been making an awful lot of trips to the Sept, my lady. And it is such a far walk. Why do you not take the palanquins we provide for you? Are you not satisfied with my generosity?"
"No, Your Grace! You are far too generous! I walk to be more humble before the gods, Your Grace. They will heed my words much better if I come to them humble." She stated. The blood pooling under the skin on her cheek was throbbing painfully and she winced.
"Will they not heed you because you are praying for your one true king?" Joffrey rose from the Iron Throne, the crimson half cloak that hung from his shoulders swaying with every exaggerated step he took towards her. The Kingsguard lined the bottom of the steps, providing the only barrier between him and her, though it served little purpose. She would rather have his weak hands hit her than the steel gloved hand of Ser Meryn.
"I-I- didn't think of that, Your Grace. I'm just a stupid girl." She stuttered. Please let him leave me be, please let him be satisfied.
"You're right, you are a stupid girl. But these trips to the Sept are causing too much disruption and you need to learn your lesson of what happens when you are too much of a nuisance. Ser Meryn? Ser Boros? Teach her this lesson." Joffrey hissed and the two largest Kingsguard members slowly walked forward, still clad in armor that clinked with every step. Sansa was trembling uncontrollably as they drew their swords and began to swing them at her, her screams only feeding her King's pleasure.
Over a week passed until her wounds healed. It was worse than any time before for this time she had provoked him herself, not the actions of her father or brother. This had been her own stupid fault.
Shae avoided the worst of it. Sansa took her punishment for her. The maid was far gentler with her as she nursed her wounds, applying poltices and salves Maester Pycell brought daily to her chambers. Shae avoided making eye contact with Sansa and was apologizing as often as she could for the treatment she received. It seemed odd to Sansa, coming from a toughened Lorathi who touted her alacrity to kill, though she wrote it off as the girl's way of making up her castigation.
The day was chilly and grim when Sansa finally felt ready to head back to the Sept. Sandor must be worried sick about me, she thought, wrapping a pink shawl tightly around her shoulders. The bruises on her face still held a sickening mix of greens and purples that refused to fade which no powders could seem to mask. She would not have to say a word for Sandor to realize what had happened to her. For the first time the two women took a Baratheon palanquin to the Great Sept.
The guards were reluctant to leave her side, but once at the common door at the foot of Baelor the Blessed they allowed to girl to enter on her own and stood sentry outside. Shae entered with her, waiting hear the graves of the last Targaryens for her lady.
Sansa did not wait for Sandor to come fetch her but hurried down to his chambers. The shawl covered her face as she hid in alcoves from the septons and septas who resided there. The further she went down the fewer people to block her path until her hand reached the simple door of her Silent Brother. She knocked once and could hear the wooden chair against the stone floor and steeled herself for his reaction.
The shadows inside hid her face behind her hair and shawl as she stepped around him inside, her back to the man and the door. The flame in front of her made the bruises on her face sting and she shied away from the wall, bumping into the encroaching Sandor.
"You alright, little bird?" His voice was quiet which scared her. Sucking in her breath, she dropped the shawl to the floor and turned to him, showing him her face. His breath hissed out of his teeth. "Joffrey did this to you?" he fumed, his hands clenched so tightly at his side that his knuckles were turning white. She did not speak but merely nodded, falling to the bed and resting her head in her hands. She felt ugly when she always wanted to be beautiful for him, a winter rose.
Sandor was shaking silently for an eternity before his chest heaved and he roared, shaking the wooden bedframe. She screamed into her hands as he upturned the table, sending it crashing into the wall and splintering into pieces. He repeated the same with both chairs until he collapsed on the floor in front of her, taking her trembling hands in his.
"I swear to you, little bird, I'm going to kill that whoreson." His eyes burned not from the torch but from something deep. Before she could respond, he threw his brothers robes on and thundered out of the room, breaking the door of its hinges on his way out and leaving Sansa Stark weeping silently on the bed.