The Royal Sept, on a typical night, might have been a place of sanctuary for Sansa. In the absence of a true heart tree, it was a small vestige of home, if a poor one. She often found peace there; none had the gall to disturb her in her worship. Though her worship mostly consisted of her closing her eyes and picturing herself anywhere, anywhere but King's Landing.
Often, she pretended she was in the sept at Winterfell. The incense that smoldered in the Royal Sept obscured the stink of the city, and it was the same they used at home. It was enough to fool her mind, if only for a bit. Sansa always found disappointment when she opened her eyes once more, though. The Royal Sept was far more lavish than the one in Winterfell, and far warmer.
That night, however, the Royal Sept might have been the Sept of Baelor for all it aggrieved Sansa. The Sept of Baelor, where they took father's head. The incense was nothing but cloying, and it stung her eyes and burned her throat. The singing of hymns had been peaceful for a bit, but as they shifted to prayers for Joffrey, they churned her stomach.
Sansa had tried to stay, if solely for propriety's sake, but her skin crawled at the simpering prayers of the ladies gathered and the way they called Joffrey good and kind. Do they not notice how he beats me? Do they not realize he would do the same to them, if not worse?
Her path into Maegor's Holdfast was impeded by Lady Tanda and Falyse Stokeworth, who each had a firm hand on poor Lolly's arms. Sansa gave little thought to many of the ladies at court, but she held sorrow for sweet Lollys.
The riots had not left many unscathed, and Sansa was fortunate that at least the Hound had come to her rescue. She must have scrubbed at her thighs for hours that night, and they'd been red and raw for days following. Sansa had burned the dress as well. That day had woven itself into her dreams, much to her horror. Sansa hadn't thought her nightmares could get much worse.
But Lollys had not been so lucky, and no amount of washing could undo what those men did to her. Sansa gingerly approached, and slowly stepped in front of Lollys as to not startle her.
"Won't you walk with me, my lady?" Sansa tried to coax her. Lollys did not cease her protests, and so Sansa tried once more. "It's a long walk to the Queen's Ballroom. I would be rather lonesome otherwise, I fear."
Lollys simply stepped back further, and her maidservant approached and whispered in Falyse's ear. To Sansa's horror, Falyse tightened her grip on Lollys and with the maidservant's help, all but dragged her across the drawbridge. They need not be so cruel.
Hurriedly, Lady Tanda approached Sansa. "My apologies, Lady Sansa. My Lollys meant no offense. She's ill, you see."
"Of course she didn't. I pray her health will return to her, my lady," Sansa smiled graciously. Lady Tanda hurried after her daughter, but Sansa lingered. Ill, she says. It had even reached Sansa's ears that Lollys was with child. She does not deserve such a fate, no one does. Not even Cersei, Sansa decided.
Sansa looked out over the bay and watched as the Three Whores hurled flaming projectiles at Stannis' fleet. If this is all the defense King's Landing has, it will fall tonight. Sansa continued on into Maegor's Holdfast, not wishing to linger.
Much to Sansa's distress, the Queen's Ballroom was no less crowded than the Royal Sept. Sansa still thought it far lovelier than the Sept, however. The walls were paneled in deep, rich wood; intricately carved and far lovelier than anything in Winterfell's great hall. High, arched windows provided some view of the Blackwater Bay, and Sansa resolved to avoid that view tonight.
Towards the front of the room, tables had been placed. Cots and cushions were arranged towards the back of the hall, and guards lined the walls. Candles and lit sconces with silver mirrors behind them set the entire room awash in warm light, and more torches still lined the railing of the gallery above.
She almost wished she'd stayed in the Sept. Highborn women from across the city all crowded together; some sat huddled in corners muttering prayers while others busied themselves with needlework or other mindless tasks. Some sat at the tables towards the front of the room, picking at a lavish spread of food and drinking copious amounts of wine. Sansa had no place amongst any of them.
The boys who were too young to fight gathered around the edges of the ballroom with toy swords, whacking at one another and playing at protecting them all from Stannis himself. Perhaps their brothers and fathers fought outside the walls as well, only when they were struck with swords, it left them with more than bruises. The old men who were present seemed to know that, for they watched the young boys with sorrow.
Above them all sat Cersei, alone on her raised dais. A small table sat to her right, and atop it sat her own pitcher of wine. Behind that pitcher of wine sat yet another, untouched and in waiting. She spotted Sansa and waved her forward, and not wishing to displease Cersei that night, she joined her on the dais.
From her place next to Cersei, Sansa had a better view of the hall. Of the guardsmen lined the walls and the entrances, chief amongst them was Ser Ilyn Payne. Ser Ilyn Payne, with her father's sword strapped to his back. The very sight of it set her blood to boil, and she desired nothing more than to drive it through his back.
Cersei tracked her gaze and smiled to herself. "You've noticed our guest, then." She held her goblet out wordlessly, and the servant refilled it from the pitcher sitting next to her.
"He's hard to miss, your grace, it's an impressive sword he has." Cersei's eyes flashed, and Sansa knew it would have been wiser to hold her tongue. What else did Cersei expect? No doubt, she'd allowed Ser Ilyn to carry it as a petty taunt.
"Don't fret, sweetling. He's merely keeping it safe for your brother." Cersei tsked, and took a swig of her wine. "Would you like to know why I invited him tonight?"
For his riveting conversation, perhaps? "Why, your grace?" Ser Ilyn watched them, and Sansa watched Ser Ilyn. Did he suffer any shame for taking her father's head? Or for carrying around his sword? If he did, Sansa was certain he would never tell her.
Rather than reveal to Sansa her reasoning, Cersei took a deep sip of her wine. "Tell me, little dove, do you pray for Stannis' victory? Perhaps you think he might set you free."
"I pray for the victory of my beloved Joffrey, your grace." Cersei made a show of gracing Sansa with a contented smile, though to Sansa it looked nothing but oily and vicious.
"Of course you do, sweetling." Cersei emptied her goblet and curtly demanded more.
The servant once more refilled her goblet, and Cersei leaned closer to Sansa. Her breath was hot and fetid with the stink of wine, and it was all Sansa could do to not wrinkle her nose and shirk away. In a conspiratorial whisper, Cersei said, "if Stannis is victorious tonight, our dear Ser Ilyn will take mercy on you and I and take our heads."
As if she'd said nothing at all, Cersei sat straight in her chair and gulped down yet more wine. Sansa's stomach curdled, and when Cersei pushed a goblet of wine into her hands, Sansa graciously sipped it.
Sansa watched the women in the hall, the boys playing at war, and wondered what Stannis would do to them if he won. Would he judge them all in place of the Stranger and find them guilty? No, it would be his men who reached them first. And Sansa knew what would become of the women then. Elia Martell told me that tale.
Noticeably absent from the ballroom was Tommen. He had been there to see Joffrey off, but Sansa imagined the quarrel he'd had with Cersei the previous evening would keep him far from his mother's presence tonight. He hadn't divulged to Sansa what exactly the row had been about, but Sansa wondered if it had to do with the stroll they'd taken together through the godswood that morning.
Osfryd Kettlebeck approached Cersei, and in a low tone informed they had caught three servants trying to escape with horses. Cersei raged and called for Ser Ilyn.
I will not get a better chance than this. Unable to take much more of Cersei, Sansa drained the rest of her wine and slipped away. Cersei did not notice, and if she did, Sansa presumed she was far too drunk and angry to care.
The halls of Maegor's Holdfast were much more peaceful than the ballroom, and Sansa breathed easier. The ballroom had been stuffy, and far too many eyes had been on her.
Should I pray for Stannis' victory? Her father always said he was an honorable man, a just man. If Jon Arryn deemed him trustworthy enough to trust with his suspicions about Cersei's children, then certainly it must be true.
But what if he put her to the sword with the rest of them, if Ser Ilyn did not reach her first? While her father had touted Stannis' honor, he'd also spoken of his propensity for stern justice. Many of Joffrey's court and small council would lose their heads; Joffrey certainly would. But what justice would Stannis find by taking her head?
He won't set you free, by any means. He would keep her locked in her cage. Stannis would know the value of a good hostage, and Sansa couldn't help but assume he had no intention of allowing the North its independence. He would ally with Robb, otherwise.
No, she might lose the shadow of a traitor's daughter, but Stannis would no doubt consider her a traitor's sister. Oh, she doubted he would have her stripped and beaten before the court, nor would he abide by her being humiliated and mocked so openly. But still she would sing her songs, and hope that Robb's end came in the form of a bent knee rather than a severed head.
As Sansa rounded the corner to the hallway leading to her chambers, she stopped short. Two gold cloaks marched down the hallway towards her, but stopped abruptly upon sighting her.
Their helms obstructed her view of their faces, and she could not tell whether or not they were of the guards Joffrey favored. He's supposed to be down by the gates. She had no desire to be tormented that night, and so she spun to set off in the opposite direction.
"Sansa! Stop," The shock alone of being addressed by just Sansa halted her flight. Had the man addressed her by any other name, Sansa might have continued to run.
How long had it been, since someone aside from Cersei addressed her as Sansa rather than Lady Sansa, or the traitor's daughter in passing? If any of the Lannister guards acknowledge her at all, it was always with a stiff my lady.
One of the men removed his helm, and it was all Sansa could do to remain standing. Jory. She started forward at the same time as he did, and he clutched her tight to his chest. The cold metal of his breastplate dug into her cheek, but could not have cared any less.
The last Sansa had seen Jory had been the day her father sent Arya, Jeyne, and Bran away. Sansa hadn't forgotten Jory in her prayers. If he's here, he must have gotten Arya, Jeyne, and Bran home safe.
"What are you doing here?" Sansa gasped out. This is a dream, it must be. I'll wake tomorrow, and he'll be gone. It was all Sansa could do to not weep.
"Robb sent us for you," Jory said.
In her darkest moments, confined to her bed with weeping gashes on her back that reopened and screamed with even the slightest movement, Sansa worried Robb had forgotten about her. She always felt foolish for it the next morning, and she felt especially foolish for it now.
Sansa remembered the other man with him and stepped back. He had not yet removed his helm, and she tiptoed forward to get a better view. She narrowed her eyes, and once more the floor felt as though someone had tugged it out from under her.
"Theon," she whispered. His name knocked him out of whatever stupor had taken hold, and he rather roughly grasped her to him. This time, she wept. Gods, how I've missed him.
Theon embraced her tightly, if briefly, before grabbing her by the shoulders and gently easing her back. He raised a hand to gently cup her cheek, and he drew his brows together.
"Are you alright, Sansa?" His thumb brushed over a faded gash on her cheek, where Ser Meryn's gauntlet laden hand had sliced open her skin.
Sansa placed her hand atop his. "I'm well, Theon. An old wound."
Despite how hard she'd tried, Sansa had failed to put their bitter farewells from her mind. No matter what she did, she was always left with the image of Theon sharply bowing to her and wishing her good fortune with the prince. His eyes had been as chilly as the snow falling around them, and as they'd set out down the King's Road that day, it hadn't been the wintry winds which tore to Sansa's very being.
Now, though, his eyes had their usual warmth to them. A dark brown which reminded Sansa of the soft forest floor of the godswood, or the bark of the trees in the Wolfswood. They reminded Sansa of home.
Jory cleared his throat. "We have little time. We'll need to go before the battle ends."
"Right," Theon shook his head. He placed Sansa's hand in the crook of his own. Briefly, the notion of her belongings in her chambers caught her mind. Foolish. She had nothing remaining to her worth the risk of making such a detour.
Sansa let Jory take the lead, and they wove through the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast. Her heart found a home in her throat, and she could not stop her hands from shaking. It all seemed too good to be true.
Already she could feel her mother's warm embrace. Home. I'm going home. She could hear Arya's laugh, she could picture Alysanne and Robb strolling arm in arm. Lady. I'll see Lady again. The thought of her direwolf by her side once more was almost too much to bear. How tall must Bran and Rickon be by now?
She'd wander through the godswood, a real godswood, and while the day away in there if she wished. And if she got cold, she could delve into the hot springs, like she had as a young girl. Sansa longed for the bite of a summer snow, where it was never so cold that they'd catch a chill from spending the day building forts and chasing one another around with the threat of a snowball fight.
Everything would be as it should be; Arya would run wild around the keep, Bran would lead the guards on wild chases across the rooftops, she, Jeyne, and Alys, would sit by a hearth and do their needlework with Septa Mordane — Septa Mordane rots above traitor's walk with father. Father wouldn't be there to corral Bran or make mother laugh, and summer was swiftly fading.
They rounded a corner, and Sansa almost ran into Jory's back. His shoulders were rigid, and his hand moved slowly towards the hilt of his sword. Her stomach twisted, and Sansa side-stepped around Jory to find Tommen heading their way. Tommen. It's only Tommen.
Upon seeing them, Tommen stopped too. Tommen smiled at Sansa, and Theon attempted to nudge her behind him.
Tommen's eyes danced from Theon to Jory and then to Sansa, and recognition dawned on his face. "I remember you! You were Lord Stark's man! And you're Theon Greyjoy." If anything, Tommen appeared more pleased that he'd recognized Jory and Theon than confused as to what they were doing in the Red Keep, dressed as gold cloaks no less.
Theon partially withdrew his own sword from the scabbard, and Sansa placed her hand on his. Tommen's eyes widened, and he studied Theon, Sansa, and Jory once again. "You're trying to escape, aren't you?"
A hiss of steel, and Jory removed his sword further from the scabbard. Sansa stepped forward before Theon could remove his sword. "We are, Tommen. Please," she pleaded.
Tommen met her pleading gaze, and he peered behind his shoulder down the hallway. "You'll never make it out that way." Sansa sagged against Theon.
"How do you suggest we get out, then?" Jory had just barely lowered his sword and still considered Tommen with suspicion.
With one last careful glimpse up and down the hallway, Tommen nodded his head in the direction from whence they came. "I know of a passageway. It leads down to the dungeons, and further out of the keep. Come on, I'll lead you as far as I can."
Without a second thought, Tommen set off down the hallway. Both Jory and Theon gave Sansa searching looks before following, but when she nodded and started after Tommen, they did as well.
He did say he'd see me home. If Tommen had been the elder, then perhaps the realm would be at peace. Sansa didn't understand how someone as good as Tommen could have a brother like Joffrey, or a mother like Cersei. She often wondered the same about Myrcella, who had been just as kind to her as Tommen, if perhaps a bit more distant.
But who can truly blame her? Sansa understood too well the desire to please one's mother. She cringed now, to look back on how she'd treated poor Jon as a girl, and it had simply been because she'd seen the way her mother looked upon her half-brother. My brother, for he is father's child, the same as I.
If what Tommen had heard from Tyrion was true, then Robb had legitimized Jon as Prince Jon Stark, and named him his Hand. That had brought Sansa some joy, on what otherwise had been an especially dark day. Jon would never have thought to ask for such a thing, but Sansa knew he'd long wished to bear the name Stark the same as the rest of them.
"What is this?" A voice cracked from behind them. Their group jolted to a stop.
Tommen was the first to turn around, and when Sansa did as well, her blood ran as cold as the White Knife. Joffrey scowled at them from down the hall, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn at his shoulders. He's supposed to be at the gates. Why isn't he at the gates?
Joffrey's face melded into an ugly puce. "I ask again. What is this?"
Ser Boros and Ser Meryn loomed over Joffrey's shoulders, like two ugly dogs. When Joffrey received no answer, he snarled a command to the two Kingsguard, and they drew their swords as they stalked forward.
"Go on," Jory said under his breath.
Her heart stuttered. He can't mean it. "We won't leave you," Sansa argued. "You'll die, I won't let you stay." How could she leave Jory? Loyal Jory, who had traveled all the way back to King's Landing for her.
Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were halfway down the hall. Sansa grabbed Jory's arm and tried to tug him, to make him move, but he would not budge.
"Theon, take her. Follow Tommen and run." Jory drew his sword and fixed Theon with a stern gaze. He pressed a small pouch into Theon's hand. "Forget the Iron Gate."
Theon faltered, but acceded all the same. He wrapped a firm hand around Sansa's arm. "Go," Theon said to Tommen.
As soon as Tommen ran, Joffrey's shrill voice resounded down the hall. "Kill them! Kill all of them!" The clashing of swords chased after Sansa as she struggled to keep pace with Theon and Tommen. "I want their heads!"
They skidded around corners and stumbled downstairs, only to then struggle up flights of stairs Sansa didn't know existed. Her legs wailed in protest with every step, and the newer slashes on her back howled and scorched as sweat dripped into them. Her lungs felt as though they were about to crack, and the longer she ran, the more she stumbled over her own feet.
They rounded another corner to find a dead end, and panic welled in Sansa's chest at the ringing sound of footsteps heading their way. Tommen slapped his hand against a brick and a small opening slid open.
Tommen ducked in, and once Sansa and Theon joined him, the hidden door clicked closed behind them. Darkness engulfed them, but still they continued onwards. None of them spoke, and the only sounds were the echo of their footsteps and their heaving breaths. They descended as fast as they dared, down dark and narrow stairs.
It felt as though the passageway continued on forever. The dark was demanding, and the air was stale and humid and filled with dust all at once. Rats scuttled away from the clamor of their footsteps, and more than once Sansa slipped on the damp stairs. If someone had told Sansa this passage led to nowhere, she might have believed them.
Finally, the passageway spit them out onto a rocky beach. Sansa collapsed onto the ground. Jory. They have Jory. She'd left behind Jory, left him behind in the same place he'd come to rescue her. She'd left him at the mercy of Cersei and Joffrey. I'm sorry, father. I'm sorry, Jory./
Theon stripped off the heavy armor and let it hurtle to the ground, leaving him in plain trousers and a worn tunic. He knelt beside her and attempted to place a soothing hand on her back, but it settled right where Ser Meryn's blade had just several days prior. Sansa gasped in pain, and he was quick to withdraw his hand. "Sansa—"
"I'm alright," she clamored to her feet. "I'm fine. We have to go." The city will be crawling with men looking for me, if it isn't already. Her face dripped with sweat, and she was thankful it masked the tears that streamed down her cheeks and to her chin, before slithering down her neck.
"I have to go back," Tommen whimpered. His eyes darted frantically from their path onwards and back to the path into the keep.
Joffrey will kill him. He was incensed enough that Tommen even spoke to me. Sansa took a half step towards him. "Tommen, you can't. Joffrey will—"
Would Joffrey dare to kill Tommen? Would Joffrey be so bold as to kill his own brother? Cersei would never let him. Then again, Joffrey was the King. As much as Cersei liked to pretend it was so, Joffrey paid no mind to her opinions on matters.
He sent Ser Meryn and Ser Boros. Joffrey wouldn't kill Tommen, he'd let his mad dogs do it for him. After all, Joffrey had never beaten her before the court. He'd always ordered one of his knights to do it, as to not dirty his hands. It will be the same here.
Or perhaps Joffrey would subject Tommen to a worse fate. He could be quite creative with punishments. Does it truly matter? Joffrey would show no mercy to Tommen for helping her flee. Sansa did not want Tommen's blood on her hands along with Jory's. Jory's was enough.
"He'll kill me," came Tommen's broken whisper. With one more pained glance from the passageway where they'd emerged, Tommen staggered forward. His shoulders hunched in on himself and his head hung low, but he did not look back again. He did not even look back to see if they followed.
Theon nudged his way to the front, and he led them around the edge of the bay. The Red Keep remained a menacing shadow overhead, and Sansa could feel its fierce glare as they wound their way to land. They found the Rosby Road and kept to the trees that ran alongside it.
They walked and walked, and did not stop until they found a small farm. They filched three horses, and for the trouble left the bag of gold coins Jory had given Theon. This time, they did not stick to the trees. Instead, they tore down the Rosby Road, and the thud of hooves against dirt drowned out the painful pounding of Sansa's heart.
Sansa chanced a peek over her shoulder and half expected to find men riding them down, but the road was empty. The night sky glowed a sickly green, the same green as Cersei's eyes, and it lit their way onward.