Mid April, 300 AC

Tommen giggled, golden curls bouncing. One chubby hand grasped an old fishing pole. A bright ball of ribbons bounced along the floor, attached to the pole by a string. Ser Pounce crouched low, his eyes following the ball's movement. His rump wiggled, his ginger-white tail flicked. Quick as a flash he leapt, batting at the ribbons with his claws.

Buttons watched from his place on a lady's ample lap, his eyes half-closed as gentle hands stroked his fur. It feels so nice, Sansa thought. With a sigh of regret she slipped away.

The noonday sun nearly blinded her after the dim light of the king's chambers. Sansa blinked back stars, her eyes adjusting slowly as she grew used to her own skin. Had she remembered all of her visits? Softpaws, Lady Stripes, Lady Cinders, that made three. Ser Whiskers, Munch, Buttons, and Ser Pounce, four-five-six-seven. Yes, she had visited them all.

Softpaws was happily esconced in the kitchens. During Sansa's brief visit a cook slipped Softpaws two bites of fish and a morsel of pheasant. Tess was plump and pink-cheeked, and the finest cook in King's Landing, or so Sansa had heard. Lord Tywin had taken her into his service immediately upon his return to the city, her prior employer having died in the fighting.

Although it was not yet midday, Tess was already busy supervising the preparation of Hand's supper. Pantler and buttler, spicer and larderer, all bustled about at her command. Lord Mace Tyrell and Prince Oberyn Martell would sup with Lord Tywin tonight, and the meal must be extravagant. Sansa hoped Softpaws would manage to get inside the Tower of the Hand. The mama cat was the best at remembering human speech when Sansa could not ride inside her.

Lady Stripes and Lady Cinders were napping as usual, Lady Stripes in the small council chambers and Lady Cinders in the queen's. Neither had heard anything today. The small council had not met for three days, and the queen was out riding with Margaery Tyrell.

Lady Cinders was bored with the queen's chambers, but Sansa encouraged her to keep to her post. It was only a few weeks past that the dark tabby had overheard Grand Maester Pycelle speaking with Cersei about an extremely rude raven Robb had sent demanding Sansa's return. Her heart had felt so full it could burst. She sent her own raven a few days later, praying it would catch Arya or Robb before they left Riverrun. Sansa wasn't sure if the raven could find them on the road, but Swiftwing had promised to try.

Ser Whiskers was in the Maidenvault, rubbing against Lady Olenna's legs. The blonde cat had managed to befriend Lady Margaery, taking advantage of her visits to her young betrothed. Whenever Tommen and Margaery walked in the gardens, Ser Whiskers followed at their heels, chasing butterflies and pouncing on suspicious twigs. The Tyrells thought nothing of it when Ser Whiskers followed Margaery back to the Maidenvault.

Munch spent her time stealing dainties in the cornerfort. Fortunately Ellaria Sand found such antics amusing; nothing Sansa said could stop the cat's thieving. So far Munch had discovered that Lady Nym liked daggers and kissing her maid, and Ser Aron Santager's wife, Lady Cedra, spent a lot of time in Prince Oberyn's solar with the doors shut. Sansa had slipped in with Munch once, expecting to find some scandalous encounter. Instead she had overheard a very confusing conversation about something called "embezzlement."

Buttons was her wanderer, her sweet ginger boy. He spent enough time with Tommen to establish himself as a favorite, but otherwise he roamed the castle. Buttons was well known among the redcloaks for his habit of flopping at their feet, mewling for belly rubs. Some of them would even meow back at him, if no other guards were in earshot.

Usually Sansa took advantage of his popularity to slip into the Tower of the Hand and eavesdrop on Lord Tywin. Today, however, she had found Buttons indulging himself in napping and petting and batting at ribbons. Sansa could not begrudge him. He was a cat, after all.

Ser Pounce was usually Sansa's last visit. The rambunctious kitten was Tommen's most loyal companion, always by the young king's side. He overheard little of use, too busy playing to pay attention to human speech he only half understood.

Sansa's stomach gurgled. Kella would soon be bringing the midday meal. Sansa rose with a sigh, brushing grass from her deep blue skirts. Her arm tingled, the newest scar pink against the fading silver of the old.

The weirwood watched Sansa with her own eyes, Arya's grin upon its lips. She fed it every few weeks, singing her wound shut when she was finished. Sansa had hoped that her sacrifice might help her dream of Bran, but so far her efforts were in vain. She had not glimpsed him since the first moon of the new year.

In her dream Bran was slim as a sapling. Tangled hair brushed his shoulders, his face pale. An immense wall of ice drew his gaze. It shimmered in the sunlight, a thousand colors sparkling like precious jewels. There was diamond white, aquamarine blue-grey, the bright sky blue of tourmalines. Even the memory was enough to make her catch her breath.

There were no such wonders here. Her cage's walls were red stone, dull and lifeless. Her dreams were filled with scents of pine and snow, of pack. Now Sansa's sensitive nose caught the sour stench of wine, even before she saw the Hound awaiting her at the entrance to the godswood.

"Pretty little bird finished with her prayers?" Sandor Clegane rasped. Sansa nodded, glad that she could tell the truth. She always prayed to the old gods before she closed her eyes and slipped her skin.

"It's a wonder they let you pray, after Sweet Root," he snorted as they walked towards Maegor's Holdfast. "What did you ask your old gods for this time? Did you pray for a handsome knight to take you away?"

"I prayed for you." It was not entirely a lie, she did pray for him in the sept. The Hound laughed bitterly.

"Stupid little bird. Did you pray my face might heal, so you'd not have to look at it?"

The thought had not even occurred to her. Sansa had asked the Mother to gentle the rage that frightened her so. But she knew better than to tell him that.

"No, my lord," she whispered. Sandor Clegane did not reply, but brooded in silence.

When they reached the keep-within-a-keep they found Ser Lyn Corbray holding the drawbridge. He was the newest member of the Kingsguard, come to take the cloak left vacant by Ser Mandon Moore. Sansa wondered if her aunt intended to make peace with the Lannisters. Dorne and the Reach were willing to kneel, why not the Vale?

Ser Lyn was more handsome than his predecessor. Three ravens ornamented his greathelm, his cloak clasped with a heart-shaped brooch of jet and ruby. His raised visor revealed restless eyes. She should be grateful for the change; Ser Mandon Moore had scared her with his flat dead stare. But Ser Lyn's mouth was just as hard, and she did not like the way he smiled.

"The godswood again, my lady?" Ser Lyn asked mockingly. He looked at Sandor Clegane as if Sansa was not there. "It must bore you, guarding such a delicate flower. Unless..." he smiled wickedly. "Have you been plucking at her petals, dog? Those ripe teats would make a eunuch stiff." Sansa could feel the color rising in her cheeks.

"Enough," The Hound rasped. "Unless you'd like a thrashing in the practice yard."

"You'll be the one bleeding, dog," Ser Lyn snapped, and then they were past him.

"Thank you," Sansa said when her wits returned.

"For what?" The corner of the Hound's mouth twitched. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

"For- for being a true knight, and defending me from Ser Lyn," she said, tensing as she waited for his temper to erupt. Instead he threw his head back and roared.

"Words are wind, girl. Ser Lyn would never lay a hand on you." Her face must have shown her confusion, because the Hound laughed again. "He prefers buggering boys. All I did was make him guard his tongue. I'm no more a true knight than that cow from Tarth."

They walked on in silence. The passageways were deserted, the many servants busy elsewhere in the keep. Sansa was halfway up the narrow stairs that climbed to her tower cell when a queer giddy courage seized her.

"Why didn't you strike down your brother?"

The Hound spun, teeth bared in a snarl. With a heavy hand he shoved Sansa against the wall, his dagger at her throat.

"Choose your next words wisely, little bird." Sandor Clegane's eyes were wild, burning with hate and fear. The stone wall was cold against her back; her feet dangled above the steps.

"At the Hand's Tourney," she said, trembling. The steel was icy against her skin. "When he tried to kill Ser Loras. You never sent a cut at his face, even though he wore no helm. You could have slain him, but you didn't."

"The king was watching."

"The king would have forgiven you, for the sake of Ser Loras." His hand clamped her shoulder like a vice; her heart hammered in her chest. The Hound stared, his mouth opening and closing. He did not even twitch when her right shoe fell down the steps with a soft thud.

"He's a man that needs killing," he growled at last.

"But not by you," she gasped. Fear had stolen her breath. "The old gods and the new condemn kinslaying."

"Bugger that. Even if the gods exist the seven hells would be worth it." The dagger shook in his hand, the tip pricking her throat. His eyes were white and wide and terrifying. "I dream of killing Gregor every night. I burn him, I gut him, I strike his head from his shoulders and piss on his corpse. No matter what I do, the next night he rises again, and presses my face to the burning coals."

"So tell me, little bird. Would a true knight lust for his brother's blood?"

She had no answer for that. She could not think, not with cold steel kissing her throat. Please don't kill me , Sansa wanted to scream, please don't. Helpless, she looked up into those terrible eyes.

"No more than a true lady would kill her betrothed," she whispered. His eyes widened, and suddenly the dagger was gone. The Hound lowered her to the floor, her stocking catching on the stone. She pressed a hand to her throat, fingertips slipping against the blood.

"A true knight would not have done that," the Hound said, backing away.

No, Sansa thought. "I know," she said. Words came to her lips as if from nowhere. "I also knew a man who let a wolf run free."

"A fool."

"A true knight," she insisted. "If only for a moment." A strange tension hung in the air, so thick that her whisper cut like a knife. "He could be a true knight again."

In the songs heroes fell to their knees at such words, swearing their swords to their lady's cause. The Hound spat at her feet.

"Spare me the pretty lies; I'm sick of your chirping." Yet his hands were gentle as he dabbed at the blood welling from her throat, and when the bleeding stopped he fetched her shoe and slipped it back on her foot.

Sansa's heart was still pounding when he left her at the door of her chambers. She washed her throat with water, then sang in a quavering voice. When she checked her looking glass she could find no scar.

Lunch was a solitary affair. Shae chattered the entire time, sharing bits of gossip that Sansa mostly already knew. All Sansa had to do was hum in agreement or ask the occasional question. The bedmaid was friendly enough, but they would never have put her with Sansa unless they meant for her to spy. Whether she reported to the queen or Ser Kevan was irrelevant; she could not be trusted, no more than anyone else in this city.

Sansa wondered what Shae reported. When the bedmaid wasn't seeing to her duties she spent most of her time sighing after Sansa's jewels. Shae had one or two of her own, but she'd let slip once that she'd owned more, gifts from some lord who'd died fighting on the Blackwater.

After luncheon Shae helped Sansa change into a pale blue gown that looked well against her auburn hair. Ellaria Sand had promised her Dornish music, and Sansa dared not plead illness. Shae clasped a silver chain about her neck, and arranged her hair artfully beneath a woven silver hair net. Sansa must look beautiful if she was to make the Dornish love her, she must make the Tyrells love her. Giving alms had won her some love from the commons, but the Lannisters gave not a fig for the smallfolk. Only great lords could serve to shield her from the queen.

Ser Daemon Sand came to fetch Sansa. Prince Oberyn himself had knighted the Bastard of Godsgrace; gossip claimed he was one of Dorne's finest swords. Ser Daemon was easy to look upon, with his sandy hair and his dimples, as handsome as the Warrior. It was less easy to look at the Hound after the morning's terror. He trailed after them, as quiet and pensive as the Stranger. Once when they turned a corner she caught him staring at her throat, frowning.

The cornerfort was aswirl with music when they arrived, a woman's rich voice echoing off the rafters. The style of singing was new to Sansa, the words in a tongue she did not know. The voice, however...

"Welcome, Lady Sansa." Ellaria Sand pressed a kiss to Sansa's cheek. "You are in luck, dear girl. We have found a Dornish singer to entertain us today."

Ellaria led Sansa to where the other ladies were seated. Prince Oberyn stood by the hearth, a peculiar flute pressed to his lips. Other Dornishmen surrounded him. Ser Ryon Allyrion and Ser Arron Qorgyle had drums between their legs; Lady Nym played castanets, her fingers slim and elegant, while Mors Manwoody plucked the strings of a strange lute that Ellaria called an oud.

And in their midst, Bel was singing. She knew Bel was a whore, but she looked as fine as any lady. Deep pink silks shone against Bel's rich brown skin as she stretched out her hands. Her gown was cut to suit her thick limbs and soft body, the cloth embracing her like a lover. The words must be Rhoynish , Sansa realized. The melody swelled and flowed like a river, so lovely it brought tears to her eyes. When the song ended Sansa was one of the first to applaud, Bel curtsying while the lordlings bowed.

"What was that song?" Sansa asked.

"A tale of Mother Rhoyne, and how she saved her children from the slavemasters of Valyria." Lady Cedra brushed a tear from her cheek. "I had not heard it since the day we left Spottswood."

"A thousand apologies for making my lady weep," Prince Oberyn said gallantly, bowing so that he might kiss Lady Cedra's hand.

"Flatterer," Ellaria said fondly. "The singer made her weep, not you. You must excuse my prince, Lady Sansa. He has been filled with hot wind since he was a boy, and it plagues him terribly. Playing the nai is one of the only ways to release the wind without causing some calamity."

The prince laughed.

"You see how my lady slanders me? All the sweet songs I've written for you and for our daughters, and these are my thanks?"

Sansa looked away, unable to bear the love shining in the eyes of the prince and his paramour. Mother and father looked at each other like that, when there was no one else to see. How bold the Dornish were, to love so openly.

While Prince Oberyn jested with his paramour, Sansa looked about the hall, opening her ears to the chaos of overlapping sounds. Dickon Manwoody was arguing with his brother, something about the oud being out of tune. Over in the corner Ser Deziel Dalt and Lord Tremond Gargalen were placing bets as to which of them could win the favor of the handsome singer. Neither of you, Sansa might have told them, remembering straw-haired Jess.

Sansa's skin prickled. Someone was watching her. Carefully Sansa turned her head, feigning interest in Myria Jordayne and Perros Blackmont's conversation about books. Olyvar Sand stood in a cluster of Dornish lords, stone-faced as a man thrice his age. His grim look suited the gossip she'd heard. Shae said that he was always knocking down young squires in the practice yards.

"Would you care for another song, Sansa?"

Sansa blinked, then smiled at Ellaria Sand. "I should enjoy that, my lady."

The next song was a complicated round of interwoven ballads. Bel's rich alto voice provided the melody, while Lady Nym's voice was a clear high soprano that contrasted well with Ser Ryon Allyrion's smooth bass. To Sansa's surprise the next two songs were "Black Pines" and "Wolves in the Hills," old songs about the northern mountain clans.

"I wish we could have Bel sing you more recent northern songs," Ellaria confided quietly as the drums pounded. "Alas, the Red Keep is not a safe place for 'The Honest Hand' or 'The Red Wolf,' and even the gods could not save us if someone sang 'The Wolf Who Outwitted the Lion." Singing them in the city is dangerous enough; Lord Tywin would have had the singers' tongues if not for my prince."

"My lady?" Sansa asked, bewildered.

"This city hates the Lannisters, child. Any song that makes them look foolish is apt to become well-loved." She patted Sansa's hand. "I'll admit it is a petty way to tweak the lion's tail. Lord Tywin dares not offend Dorne, not with half his levies slain by your brother and Stannis."

Warmth spread through Sansa's veins, sweeter than Arbor gold. When Bel began a ribald song about a turtle seeking a mate she laughed and clapped with the best of them. The morning's unpleasantness was almost forgotten when the doors opened to admit Ser Lyn Corbray. The music stopped with a wave of Prince Oberyn's hand.

"Are you lost, Ser Lyn?" The Red Viper drawled. "I believe you've been informed that you are not welcome here." All warmth had fled his eyes, leaving only black ice behind.

"I go where the queen commands," the Kingsguard replied with a lazy smirk. "Her Grace requires Sansa Stark; I was told the girl was here."

Ser Lyn rested a hand on the hilt of his greatsword. Lady Forlorn, it was called, the Valyrian steel blade of House Corbray. Every Dornishman was staring at Ser Lyn, their eyes full of hate. A memory niggled at her.

"Butcher," Olyvar Sand whispered, so soft even Sansa could barely hear. Now she remembered. On the Trident Ser Lyn had crossed blades with Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, cutting him down with the very blade now resting at his hip.

Ser Lyn Corbray was still smirking when he ushered her into the queen's solar, the Hound following at his heels. He pressed a dagger to my throat, he might have killed me. Yet when the door closed Sansa wished Sandor Clegane still stood beside her.

The queen sat upon her chair as if it were a throne. Cersei Lannister looked more beautiful than ever. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a bright, feverish heat to them. Eyes of wildfire , Sansa thought.

"Sweet Sansa," the queen purred. "It has been too long since we spoke. Come, sit here beside me."

It took all her strength to obey. The queen's smile reminded her of Joffrey, of the way he looked when Ser Meryn struck her. It was a smile that promised pain. Sansa swept her skirts behind her and sat, waiting for the blow to fall. Cersei took a sip of wine, savoring the taste as she watched Sansa.

"Word has come of your family. You'll be happy to hear that your uncle Edmure has wedded and bedded a lady of House Frey. Alas, it seems that was not enough for Lord Walder to forgive your brother's betrayal."

Fear coiled cold hands around Sansa's throat. "Robb has an army," she stammered. Cersei smiled and shook her head.

"Fine brave northmen, yes. Too many for Lord Frey to feed, so they marched on ahead, leaving your brother in Lord Walder's hands with only a few guards." The queen sipped her wine. "They say that Lord Edmure was besotted with his new bride. Your brother danced with all the Frey girls he might have wed, though the musicians played poorly."

"The- the musicians?" The queen savored a smug little smile.

"Yes, sweetling. It seems crossbowmen are not musically inclined. Your brother was twirling his little wife when the first quarrel struck him. Almost his entire guard was slain defending him." She sighed, swirling the wine in her goblet.

"Unfortunately your brother managed to escape the hall, though reports from the Twins are confused as to how. Some say your lady mother offered herself to old Walder Frey. Another claims that King Robert's ghost carried him away to safety." The queen rolled her eyes, then smiled. "But all agree that as he fled, an arrow struck your brother in the face. The Freys are still searching for his corpse."

She said nothing of Arya, Sansa thought, clinging to hope like a drowning man in a storm. Her voice barely shook as she asked "And my lady mother?"

"Pierced by so many arrows she resembled a pincushion. Rather like this one, in fact," the queen said, placing a crimson pincushion on Sansa's knee. Over a dozen pins were stuck into it, buried so deeply only the heads could be seen.

Sansa swallowed, tears welling in her eyes. The queen brushed them away gently, a look of feigned concern upon her face.

"Why so sad, sweetling? I hear the Freys honored the Tully funeral customs. They stripped her naked, and when every man had gotten a good look at what was left of her teats and cunt they flung her body in the river."

The sobs came suddenly, like a river bursting through a dam. Sansa wept so hard she could barely breathe, her gasps turning into hiccups. And the queen smiled, sipping her wine.

"Why must you be so hateful?" Sansa asked when she could breathe again.

The queen's smile died. Her nails were like talons as she gripped Sansa's arms, yanking her to her feet. I'm taller than she is, Sansa thought inanely.

"You dare ask that of me? You, who killed my sweet boy, my firstborn?" The queen was so close Sansa could smell the Arbor gold on her breath. "Do you think because I tolerated Robert for twenty years, that I would be so weak as to let you go free?" Knowledge struck like lightning.

"You killed him," Sansa gasped. The queen tightened her grip.

"Good King Robert," she spat. "A lie, a palpable lie. Call him what he was. Drunk King Robert the Whoremonger, the First of his Name. What the whores saw in him I couldn't say; he never mounted me without it hurting."

Horror struck Sansa speechless.

"Oh come, Sansa. It's past time for you to learn of such things. You'll be a woman flowered soon, thanks to my lord father."

Sansa was lost entirely. "Lord Tywin?"

"Yes, Lord Tywin, do try to keep up. I would have your head struck off your pretty little neck, but my lord father refuses." One slim finger traced across Sansa's throat. "No, first you must be wedded and bedded and bear a few children."

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Our time draws to an end, my dear," the queen said. Cersei cupped her under the jaw, fingers pinching painfully. "How I wish that I could rip out that lying tongue. Perhaps someday, when you are no longer of use."

There was a second knock, louder this time. The queen ignored it.

"My lord father did see fit to grant me one request. It was I who chose where you will stay until your trial." The queen brushed the hair from Sansa's face.

"Trial?"

The third knock was sharp and sudden.

"Enter!" The queen called.

The heavy door swung open to admit Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Lyn Corbray, cloaked in white. The Hound was nowhere to be seen. The queen released Sansa, her teeth bared in a vicious smile.

"Sansa Stark, you are charged with the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon. Kingsguard, escort her to the black cells."