Sansa I
While the ache on her body had faded into a muted, yet familiar memory, the bruises still lingered, fresh ones littering beside the old on the canvas of her body. Joffrey never hit her in the face, commanding the guards not to. He liked her pretty. Sansa had learnt to live with it, she had no choice in that matter.
The Kingsguard hadn't been as forceful in their blows this time, well excluding Ser Meryn Trant; Ser Arys Oakheart appeared hesitant to beat her at first for which she was thankful. It could have been a lot worse. He was the softer one and so she preferred him while the others made her nervous. He made sure to aim at places on her body where it would not hurt as much.
Her dresses were a great help in the matter. Though she'd outgrown them, they helped cover the worst of the marks, which she greatly appreciated. It acted as a shield from the noble folk and servants who liked to stare at her as she went past.
None of the royal family had ordered her any new dresses since her lord father was here — Sansa supposed they didn't care enough or had simply forgotten. Yet, they were the one thing she had that reminded her of home, of Winterfell. Her mother had made it for her during her visit to the Capital. How eager and elated she felt then, like nothing could ruin her day, not even Arya snickering and making fun of her as she spent the whole day wondering if Prince Joffrey would like her in violet or burgundy. How foolish of her.
After the incident in the Throne Room, she had woken the next morning with stiff limbs. But she could walk, which made all the difference compared to the last time, when she had to have one of her maidservants offer her an arm as she hobbled around her chambers to bathe and feed because of the giant red welts that arose at the back of her thighs. She lay in the bath for so long that the heated waters had gone cold and her skin turned pink. It'd helped but did nothing to soothe the ache in her chest.
It was also a relief to realise that she could sit down on a nearby bench or chair without wincing, without masking the fact that she was in pain. She ignored the slight limp of her walk around the gardens, her glide diminishing a tad and sometimes the hem of her dress catching her foot. Her walk was fairly quiet and she didn't encounter any nobles apart from an elderly lord from a minor House, who mostly ignored her. She was free to wander her thoughts as she pleased.
It was a beautiful day and she heard the twittering of the birds and the cooing of doves in the sky. She peered up, the warm rays of the sun gliding against her skin like the rush of the Blackwater. She thought it was beautiful, something sung straight out of a song by a handsome bard narrating the tales of brave knights and fair maidens.
Sansa straightened her back even more, fortifying her mind. She knew the truth, of course, though it took her a while to realise: all beautiful things were tainted. In all her imagination of the South, what was once so enchanting had been tarnished, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth even after such a lovely day.
Could the Gods truly be that cruel? How can it be a beautiful and warm day when her father's rotting head lay on the gates of the city, for any commoner or sell sword or servant to gape at? His vacant, gormless eyes stabbed against the post was the last memory she had of him — Joffrey had made sure of that. The sight burned behind Sansa's eyelids every time she closed her eyes before she slept; other times she'd found herself sobbing aloud for air as she woke up in the middle of the night, breathless and able to hear her father's choking gasps in the room, so genuine and so striking. . .
Her gaze darted to the side. Her maids were a few feet away from her, not paying much attention and instead had their heads huddled together, their giggles floating near her. Sansa suspected that her maids weren't even hers; they were probably given to her by Cersei.
With her hands resting demurely in her lap, her eyes settled on a cluster of red roses bunched together near a bush closest to her. Red but not blue, she thought suddenly. You could only see blue roses in the North and she realised with a dull pang that it'd been several months since she'd spotted one. She also wondered if Robb saw any blue roses while fighting in the Riverlands. She hoped with all her heart that he did. And her lady mother. Bran and little Rickon. She closed her eyes.
The last memory of the rose was when she'd been travelling in the carriage towards the Capital and had peered out of the window to see a singular blue rose lying beside a faint snow-covered tree. After staring for a while, a strange feeling welled up inside her before it shattered when Arya flicked her finger at her.
Arya.
A sharp exhale escaped her. She can't remember the last time she saw her sister or what they said to each other. Thoughts like this had plagued her ever since. Did Arya get out? Did the guards catch her? Was she still in the castle? Or. . . or was she dead in a ditch? Did Arya think of her if she was alive? She wouldn't blame her if she didn't. Arya was right all along and was able to see where she couldn't about Joffrey and the Queen. Sansa was just a stupid girl with even more foolish dreams who fell for their perfumed lies and fake truths.
Sansa's brows furrowed. Joffrey hadn't managed to beat her as long as he thought he would, she knew that. His Grace, furious, would find some way to make her pay later. Her hands trembled as she kept them respectfully clasped together in front of her stomach if only to keep herself stable. If — if she dressed better or wore a much nicer fragrance, one that appealed to his tastes, then perhaps Joffrey would forget about her or at least be more willing to grant her mercy than he was used to. And he liked her soft and pretty, right? Hadn't he always said that?
As for Lord Henrik. . .
She paused. What was she to make of him? She couldn't make out his thoughts, what he thought of her or his intentions. He could've been there to harm her for all she knew.
He didn't avoid her as if she was a plague bringing nothing but death upon him and nor did he turn his nose up at her in disdain; he didn't point fingers at her like she was a puppet in a spectacle for him to gaze at the disgraced daughter of the previous Hand of King, the daughter of a traitor. No, he did neither of these things.
Lord Henrik simply stared at her. Was it merely an amusement for him to stare at her with those nice brown eyes. . . eyes that were so expressive and deep and yet unsettled her and if that had been his motive then he certainly succeeded. Often she wanted to look away but something held her back, like an invisible string tied. Or, perhaps because she was raised as a lady and taught that glancing away from a lord's eyes when he spoke directly was considered rude. And Sansa was nothing if not a lady — it was her anchor, the only comfort she had left to cling to. Joffrey nor the Queen couldn't take that away.
She couldn't help wondering what type of man Lord Henrik was. Most men in Kings Landing were easy to identify. Only a blind man could dispute that he was handsome, she begrudgingly admitted, yet in a different way than men such as Loras Tyrell. If she'd seen him then, the dreamy, fanciful girl she'd sealed away would have gushed over him to Jeyne Poole. He groomed himself well it appeared, his clothes of a rich material deserving of an Heir to a Lord, and he didn't smell unpleasant nor had doused himself in sickening perfume. But she had come to learn that these things didn't matter anymore. Joffrey had been handsome and kind at first, she reminded herself.
No, she wanted to know his character: was he prone to succumb to wine and ale, smelling like the inside of a brewer? Did he have a penchant for violence like most men, relishing in the taste and smell of blood? Ser Meryn Trant enjoyed beating her judging by the excited glint in his eye every time his sword descended. Minor stable boys and lords loved watching other men hack at each other to death in a tournament. Joffrey certainly did, she shivered, recalling the treatment of Ser Dontos the Fool.
Or did he mask his kindness as a shield against his desire for brute force against others? Was he lazy or energetic? Was he arrogant or vain? Did he beat his servants like some men had the proclivities of doing? Did he keep whores like even some married men? Fathered a bastard or more than one child perhaps? He might have been ten and five years, a year older than her but he was a man after all.
But most importantly what did he want from her? Once or twice she'd thought about him being Joffrey's or Cersei's spy, keeping an eye on her. She wouldn't put it past them — there was no peace in the Red Keep. She remembered Maester Luwin telling her that Lord Henrik's family was a bannermen of House Lannister so it wouldn't be too far from the truth.
And yet he had protested against Joffrey's beating in the Great Hall. This was the most baffling for her. Why had he done it? To prove something? To bring attention to himself? Perhaps he wanted some glory, challenging the Kingsguard in a show of prowess? But even those types of men aren't as impulsive or stupid enough to deny the King's order — not if they don't want to find themselves short of a head. She didn't know and that scared her.
For one tiny moment, Sansa thought he had been outraged on her behalf and stepped in to save her as a true knight would. Like a true hero of old, a long-dormant voice of hers whispered. She instantly clamped it down. There were no true knights or heroes, hadn't she learnt that by now? She was a stupid girl for even letting the thought cross her mind.
Lord Henrik may have interfered but he wouldn't risk his life or status to help the daughter of a traitor, no lord or lady in Kings Landing would. It would be absurd. He was simply shocked at the turn of events. He'll soon learn that it was a frequent occurrence and stop protesting and instead turn into an eager bystander watching her with a wide, anticipated glint. Yes, that seemed more probable. She was to completely remain at the mercy of Joffrey and Cersei.
Her only hope lay with Robb and his forces. She prayed to all the Gods that her brother would succeed in his war and take her away. She longed to see her lady mother and her younger brothers. Even seeing her bastard brother, Jon Snow, would be so sweet. I am all alone here, she thought sorrowfully, blinking up at the bright light.
"My lady, it's time for your late lunch," said one of her maidservants, interrupting her train of thought.
Sansa looked up, her heart leapt in fear that they would be able to hear her thoughts and report her to Cersei. Gods, if the Queen found out. . . She cleared her throat and applied her usual polite and guarded expression.
"Yes, thank you, Dana," she replied softly, her throat gravelly from not drinking any water since this morning.
On her walk back to her chambers, Sansa caught a flash from the corner of her eye. A figure wearing vivid blue seemed as if he was following her, yet not too close to draw attention to himself. But Sansa — oftentimes tuned into her surroundings in case Joffrey had ordered his men to attack her when she least expected it — easily spotted his gaze resting upon her like he was her sworn guard.
She got the sense earlier that she was being followed but thought it must have been a noble or two taking a stroll in the garden. He trailed her all through the courtyard and the hallways like a constant shadow. A shiver crept down her spine. She was instantly reminded of Jory, her father's Captain of the Guards and her heart ached. Jory was gone just like Arya and her father. There were no loyal men to the Starks left, not in the Capitol.
When the same figure was still following her closely the next day, her hackles rose, and her eyes narrowed, instantly on edge. He was a tall man, though not as tall as the Hound, and on his front was sewn the image of three silver ships on a blue field, with a border of crimson and gold. Was he here to harm on Lord Henrik's orders? Was he playing a jest on her? She didn't believe it to be very funny.
She didn't know but she felt very wary all of a sudden and tired beyond belief. She thought it'd be so nice to simply float out of this room like a feather on the wind, taking her far, far away from cruel, golden-haired boy-kings who beat her and from soft-eyed handsome lords who seemed to take an interest in her.
Sansa bid her maids to leave her alone for a while. They hadn't protested and were quite happy to run off, probably to go see the men hacking at dummy straws and practising in the training yard. Sansa of old would have accompanied them like she used to in Winterfell, giggling with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel as they spotted the sword-wielding boys waving and grinning smugly. But this was an appeal that she had lost.
She made her way through the Red Keep and hadn't bumped into anyone she knew yet, for which she was thankful. Her steps were quick and light and it didn't take long before she reached a door that had guards posted outside of it. Sansa paused, thinking how she was going to approach this and then marched up. A guard blocked her way. They appeared different compared to the one she had seen trailing her before but both wore the same sigil.
"My lady," said the older of the guards warily, presumably pondering what King Joffrey's betrothed was doing outside his sworn lord's chamber door. "Can we help you?"
"Good afternoon, Sers," she greeted with a practised smile. "I wish to speak to your lord."
The other guard, a younger-looking one, more like a boy, shifted on his feet and shared a glance with the older man. His armour appeared bigger than he did. "I'm very sorry, my lady, but we have orders that my lord wishes to not be disturbed."
"Please, I won't take up much time, I promise," she said sweetly. "I just want to ask him something."
The young guard blushed like a green boy and he couldn't look her in the eye directly. The older guard appeared unmoved though uncomfortable.
"That may be so, yet I—"
The door swung open before either of them could speak and all of them stared back into the wide, curious eyes of Lord Henrik. He wore a linen white shirt with dark breeches and his doublet was left unopened as if put on in a hurry. His hair was tousled as if he'd run a hand through it several times. Sansa blinked in slight astonishment at his disarray in clothing, not used to seeing a man in minimal clothing that wasn't her brothers', but quickly schooled her features.
"What's going on, Jarak?" he addressed the older of the guards. "Why can I hear—?" His voice cut off when his gaze landed on her and his eyes widened as his mouth parted. "Lady Sansa!" His voice turned high in surprise and he forgot to bow. "Um, er, what — what are you doing here?"
Sansa met his eyes. "Forgive me, my lord, for the unexpected visit. I only wished to talk to you. I won't take up too much of your time."
Henrik stared for longer than was necessary at her until she looked away nervously. Her chest tightened and she wished he wouldn't stare so intensely.
"Have I come at a bad time. . .?" she asked hesitantly when he hadn't replied yet.
"Oh, no, no — not at all," said Lord Henrik loudly. He stepped to the side and stretched out his arm behind him. "Of course, you can. Come in, come in, my lady." His eyes landed on Jarak, the older guard and he sighed, exasperated. "Gods, Jarak. Stop looking at her like that, you'll scare her otherwise. She's not here to harm me."
"Forgive me, my lord," muttered Jarak, swallowing though he still regarded her with slight suspicion. He probably thought she was here to spy on his lord.
Sansa picked up the skirts of her dress and walked inside to a warm, light room that looked lived in judging by the papers scattered across the floor and table. A pile of clothes lay on the bed and other items such as books scattered the room. His sword was draped across a chair closest to him. A fire was lit up, sending warmth across her arms. It reminded her of Robb's chambers and her heart clenched.
Lord Henrik looked a tad embarrassed as he collected a bunch of papers — most likely letters as Sansa caught a written scrawl of 'Father' on one of them — and placed them face down to one side.
"Sincere apologies for the mess, my lady," he admitted shyly. "I didn't realise I'd be having guests in my chambers, much less a graceful lady such as yourself. Please sit down." He placed a comfortable chair down in front of her.
"There's no mess, my lord, I can assure you," she murmured politely and smoothed out her dress as she sat down.
"You are kind to say so. Would you like some wine or water?" he inquired, holding up a jug.
Sansa accepted some water, and the goblet was cool in her grip. She took a deep breath, not knowing why she was feeling so nervous all of a sudden. "I'm sorry, this is all untoward and improper, I know," she said.
Lord Henrik waved a hand in a dismissive motion. He offered a reassuring smile. "Ah, I've never cared much for proper, don't let that worry you." His gaze searched hers for a moment, his voice lowering. "If you don't mind my asking how are you today, Lady Sansa? Are you feeling well?"
Sansa's leg faintly twanged in remembrance of his question and Joffrey's cruel twisted smirk suddenly peered down at her from his throne, a crossbow aimed at her face. She gripped the goblet tightly as an exhale escaped her nose to rid the image from her mind; she nodded, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Lord Henrik nodded curtly.
"Good, I'm glad to hear it."
Sansa tried to identify his tone. Did he truly mean that or was he just saying that to make her feel better? A wariness, like silver armour wrapped around her chest, remained. She still felt unnerved around him. Placing her hands in her lap, she looked up as he stood there with his hands on his hips. She noted unwittingly how tall he was for his age, taller than Joffrey that was for sure. Two buttons had been left undone on his shirt and a hint of skin glinted. She cleared her throat, her eyes darting around the room, trying to focus on anything else.
"H-have you been busy this morning, my lord?" Her hands fidgeted as she tried to gather her words. "I noticed your familiar guard isn't with you."
Lord Henrik shook his head, an amused sound fleeing. "Still with the 'my lord' thing, I see," he said, a smile playing at his lips. "You're very stubborn, aren't you, my lady?"
Sansa bristled, not liking the notion of him teasing her. And calling him by his first name was too familiar for her. She didn't know him enough to do that as she considered him a riddle much less a friend. Lord Henrik's face softened.
"I'm not laughing at you, my lady, honestly," he said, leaning his lower body against the table and crossing his arms. Sansa's eyes drifted to the firm muscles that bunched up at his action and the broadness of his shoulders. He waved towards the crumpled sheets of parchment. "But to answer your question, yes, I have. I've been trying to write a letter to my father at Rubin's request. Haven't got very far, unfortunately."
He sighed, a tiny scowl on his face and Sansa tensed. For a moment, she believed him to direct his vexation towards her and her heart rate quickened. He's not Joffrey, she reminded herself. He won't hurt me.
"Oh. . . I — not good with your letters, my lord?" she questioned mostly out of curiosity.
Lord Henrik chuckled and Sansa was surprised at how scratchy it sounded. She took a sip of water.
"No, to be plain. I was never good with a quill and more comfortable with a sword in my hand."
His brows furrowed in frustration. It is possible that Sansa could have imagined smoothing out the creases between his temples with her gentle fingers and resting his head on her chest if she were still the type of fanciful girl who daydreamed about handsome, charming lords that made her heart flutter.
"I just can't help it sometimes," he continued, rubbing his forehead. "The words fly off the paper and it looks all jumbled up. Gives me a headache now and then. And my father doesn't. . ." He closed his mouth, a dark shadow flashing over his features and gone just as quickly as it appeared. "Never mind, families are a pain, that's the simple truth. Quite frankly, I don't know what to say to him. The words won't come out."
"You could start simple," suggested Sansa cautiously. "Just asking how he is and if he's well. Or you could tell him about your day in the castle."
Henrik closed his mouth, appearing thoughtful. "That. . . sounds reasonable. Still, he might not be interested in that anyway. He was always a right prick."
Sansa caught the last few words though she supposed that he didn't mean for her to hear.
"It's better to try," shrugged Sansa. "I used to chat with my dolls like that when I was little. I would sing to them, brush their hair and tell them what I had done that day."
Lord Henrik swallowed and gave her a nod. He'd give it a try at least.
"I was also never good at numbers if it's any consolation," she felt the urge to share when his eyes shifted towards hers. "I mostly liked to sew and sing. My sister hated to do either of those things. She was a lot like you in that regard."
She looked up with a smile, remembering Arya's stubbornness. Lord Henrik's face loosened, and there was a soft glint in his eyes. Her chest felt considerably lighter than it had done in months.
"Were you close with her, your sister?" he asked slowly.
Sansa conveyed a sad half-smile. "Not particularly, no. We were the only girls but couldn't have been more different. She resembles my father in looks and I took after my lady mother."
Henrik's eyes were fixed on hers and Sansa couldn't bring herself to look away. There was a charge in the air, something fluttering and invisible.
"She must be a very beautiful lady then," he muttered in a low tone.
"She is. . ." she whispered. "I long to see her every day."
A silence passed. Suddenly a shout came from outside the window and the moment was broken. She blinked and straightened in her chair. Her father was a traitor. Her brother and mother were traitors. She repeated this mantra in her head.
"Pardon me, my lord. I shouldn't speak of my family."
Lord Henrik swallowed harshly, gazing at her, and then sighed as he realised that her expression had become blank and courteous once again.
"Yes, so what can I do for you, Lady Sansa?" he asked, rising and placing his hands behind his back. His tone became business-like.
"I noticed a guard trailing me recently. I believe his sigil was one of your family crests, my lord." She raised her eyebrows, watching him closely. To her surprise, he didn't appear to be caught out and was merely thoughtful.
Lord Henrik was unaffected. "Oh, really. How odd."
"You have to keep a close eye on your guards, my lord." She raised an eyebrow, her tone cool. "It seems to me that they tend to get lost easily."
"No, I don't believe so. They're exactly where they are supposed to be, my lady." He smiled knowingly and Sansa narrowed her eyes, an inexplicable sentiment pooling in her chest.
"What is it that you hope to accomplish, my lord?" she asked, frowning, making sure to keep her voice as polite as possible. She wished he could just be plain.
"Not much, my lady. Just hope to finish this letter soon enough," he said dryly, gesturing towards the parchment. "I expect it might take me all afternoon, I'm afraid."
"You can't protect me, my lord — that was well proven. Not from Joffrey, no one can. You're no knight."
And that was the simple, sad truth. No matter how much Sansa wished against it: nobody could protect anybody. She had to face it and accept it. Henrik's jaw twitched. He looked as if he'd been smacked in the face with the hilt of his sword.
"I'm very well aware of not being a knight. But you can't deny that a lord's duty is to protect a lady?"
"Yes, but a traitor's daughter is another thing altogether, as I'm sure you're well aware." Her voice was firm. She stood up from her seat and placed the goblet on the table. "I thank you for the company and wish you well with your letter. My lord."
She curtsied and turned her back on his bewildered face. She could feel his eyes boring into her like an iron brand, a tingly sensation on the back of her neck. Lord Henrik was confusing, to say the least.
Sansa was sitting quietly sewing in her chambers when a knock on her door interrupted her. A guard walked in, decked in the House colours of crimson and gold and with an indifferent look on his face. She froze for a moment.
"Apologies for disturbing you but Her Grace, the Queen, requires your company for dinner with her and the Prince and Princess, my lady," he said, his arms crossed and stature stiff.
It took her a while to reply. "Yes, thank you, I'll be right there. I'll just change."
Sansa gave a short nod, her heart sinking at the request. Cersei didn't ask her to join her for dinner often but when she did Sansa dreaded every moment of it, constantly feeling as if knives were poking her back every second she was forced to be there. And it wasn't as if she could refuse.
The guard's expression remained unchanged. "Forgive me, my lady, but my Queen was rather insistent and would not like to be kept waiting."
Sansa paused then rose from her chair, setting aside her needlework. Her evening appeared to be taken from her. There was never any rest in the Red Keep, not where they were always watching her. Agreeing quietly, she followed the guard towards the royal quarters at a steady pace, her stomach twisting with every step.
When she reached the royal quarters, Sansa noticed Cersei sitting at the top of the table with a goblet grasped in her hand and her eyes dulled to a reddish haze and glazed over. She wore a dress of a rich scarlet and gold jewellery hung from her neck. Sansa's breath hitched and she fought the urge to pick at her nails. Cersei was drunk and when she was drunk, she seemed to be particularly callous and demeaning with her tone and words.
She curtsied perfectly, nothing short of perfection and Cersei's head snapped towards hers. Sansa looked down to avoid a glare.
"Hello, Sansa," grinned Tommen, waving, his chubby cheeks pulled into a wide smile. In the seat next to him, Myrcella looked up from her plate and threw her a small smile. Sansa breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. It wasn't going to be her and Cersei only, thank the gods.
"Ah, there you are, little dove," crooned Cersei, tiny bloodshot eyes locking onto hers. "I was beginning to wonder if you were even coming at all."
It sounded like an accusation peppered with a sugary tone.
"It is kind of you to invite me to dine with you, your Grace, and the prince and princess," murmured Sansa softly, her back instantly going rigid. "I am truly honoured."
Cersei's smile was as polished as Sansa's courtesy. "Always so polite, aren't you, Sansa dear? Such a sweetheart." Cersei leaned back in her chair, one arm slung over the back and motioned towards the seat beside her on the long table. "Come, sit beside me."
Feeling as though needles were poking through the soles of her slippers, Sansa took a deep breath and slowly shuffled next to the Queen Regent, her feet heavy and filled with crimson. She took her seat and a servant placed a silver plate in front of her.
"And how are you feeling this evening, little dove?"
"Quite well, your Grace, thank you for asking."
"Good. Apologies that Joffrey couldn't join us today — he wasn't feeling up to it, I'm afraid. He has a duty to the realm to bear."
Sansa's reply was second nature and rehearsed. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll dearly miss his presence and I pray that my beloved can join us next time."
"Yes, I'm sure you are," Cersei slurred, rolling her eyes and waving her goblet in the air, causing a tiny amount of wine to slosh onto the floor. A servant immediately went to mop it up without being asked. Her voice rose. "God, can't I get some bloody wine here?"
"Mother," frowned the princess, looking up in bewilderment.
"Are you hungry? Eat," instructed Cersei.
She didn't have much appetite, her stomach knotted and tight, but with her Queen's heavy, judgemental gaze fixed upon her, Sansa lifted her fork and took a bite of veal. It tasted like she was chewing dirt and she fought the urge to gag.
The Queen smiled thinly and took a large sip. Sansa wondered how many cups she'd drunk but was wise enough to keep her mouth shut, not wanting to anger the other woman in any manner. When she was drunk, anything could set Cersei off and she'd aim her anger at Sansa more likely than her children. It was best to let the Queen rant and keep silent. Hopefully, she'll be able to get through this dinner quickly and be escorted back to her chambers.
"Do you like my new dress, Sansa?" asked Princess Myrcella with an excited grin. She wore a dress of purple silk. "Mother had it made especially for me. I think it's very pretty though Joffrey doesn't think so."
"You look a fine sight, princess," answered Sansa, grateful for her distraction.
Cersei hummed around the rim of her cup. From the open window, the sun was setting in the orange sky. Sansa shivered as a cool breeze wafted into the room. Her back was straight and upright in the chair but it might as well have been made out of knives with the stiff way she held herself.
"Ser Pounce is getting bigger, Sansa," chimed Tommen excitedly. "Soon he'll be fully grown."
"I'm glad to hear it, my Prince. I'm sure he's a sweet cat."
"He is! I can introduce you to him if you'd like?" he offered sweetly, almost bouncing in his seat, unable to keep still. "He'll take a proper shine to you I guarantee it."
Sansa shared a small genuine smile with Tommen. The boy shared nothing of Joffrey's and the Queen's disposition. Her heart gave a conscious twinge. If only things were different and she was to wed Tommen instead of Joffrey, how good things might have been. Her father might also have been alive, whispered a voice inside her head.
Cersei sighed, and a sneer twisted her lips. "Aren't you getting a bit too old to be playing with cats now?" she demanded and Tommen deflated in his chair, his smile faded. Sansa almost hated her for that for a moment. "You'll soon be a man, Tommen. Are you still going to be playing childish games with filthy cats?"
"Ser Pounce isn't dirty," muttered Tommen.
Myrcella frowned. "He's only eight, mother, still a boy. Isn't he allowed to be a child?"
"He's his brother's heir for now until Joffrey has a child," rebuffed Cersei sharply. "He should be showing behaviour more befitting that status, not playing with cats or dolls."
Tommen glanced down at his plate, his mouth drooping down. Sansa's heart jumped in her mouth. Nothing seemed as unbearable and horrible as baring Joffrey's children. Her stomach twisted in disgust at the thoughts playing in her mind. She hadn't bled yet which was one blessing in her life. Outwardly, she masked her expression as stoic.
"Isn't it time you two were in bed?" said Cersei with a raised eyebrow.
The two children instantly began protesting but Cersei ignored them and snapped her fingers. A maid appeared and guided the two from their seats and out of the room. They waved a morose goodbye to Sansa, who threw them a thin but comforting smile.
The air certainly felt more stuffy and Sansa felt she couldn't breathe for a second. Now it was just her and Cersei along with a few servants tucked away in the corner. She wished Tommen and Myrcella hadn't gone away. She felt safer with them there at least. Cersei was quiet for a while as she went on gulping her wine. A servant refilled her goblet again as she finished it. They sat there like that for a while eating and drinking.
"It's tiring work sometimes," began Cersei suddenly, causing Sansa's head to rise towards her. "Raising children. You never realise it until you're caring for them, cleaning up after them and handling their messes and tempers. One of the hardest things we as mothers bear." She gave a short laugh, one high-pitched and dry.
Sansa's throat was dry. "Yes, your Grace," she murmured.
Cersei met her eyes, her emerald ones diluted and filled with something Sansa couldn't name. "When you're a mother there's nothing you won't do for your children — that's something you'll come to know, Sansa."
Sansa swallowed. "I-I hope so. I want to love my children, your Grace."
"That'll come easy, just as easy as breathing air."
Sansa found that hard to believe especially with Joffrey in mind. How could she ever come to love a child of a monster if that was where her duty lay?
"Drink some wine," pointed Cersei to her goblet.
"I don't drink, your Grace," she protested quietly.
"Oh, one drink won't kill you, dear — you're not pregnant yet," she laughed cruelly and then her voice hardened. "Your Queen commands you — drink."
Realising it would be futile to argue, Sansa took a sip, the cool liquid moistening her dry throat. It had a sweet taste that wasn't off-putting.
Cersei huffed a laugh. "Seems cruel, doesn't it? You never realise that love that strong can make you weak and foolish. Especially when borne from someone you don't love or care for in the slightest." Her green eyes were glazed over as if in memory as she trailed her finger along the edge of her goblet. "When you marry Joffrey, Sansa, you'll come to learn that."
"I love His Grace with all my heart. He is my one true love."
Cersei glared at her suddenly, her eyes sharpened like daggers. Sansa flinched a tad.
"Oh, do stop saying that, you blithering fool!" she snapped. "We both know you don't and will not love Joffrey so don't treat me like I'm an idiot." She scoffed and paused to take a drink. "You won't love him, I know that. Joffrey isn't the easiest to love, believe me. Even as a child, he was troublesome to control. Sometimes I think to myself if he. . ." She sighed, her voice softening at her last words and trailing off. "But I am his mother and there's nothing like a love between her and her first-born child. You'd do anything for them."
She couldn't help wondering how sad and tired the Queen looked under the darkening light. Her dress was rumpled and thin strands of golden hair had come undone while lines creased her temple. She appeared old. A pang of pity emerged from Sansa's chest.
"I shouldn't love His Grace?" Sansa's voice came out quietly in confusion.
"Oh, you can try," muttered Cersei. "As much as you like." Her stare latched onto Sansa's like a crossbow and she couldn't look away even if she wanted to. Something, an unspoken glint perhaps, in the other woman's gaze kept her in place. "The love for your children will satisfy you so love no one but them. It prevents a lot of heartache."
Sansa bit her lip, hard enough to almost draw blood. She hoped that her fate and duty didn't lie with becoming Joffrey's Queen. Please, gods, she prayed, spare me from this hell. Let Robb storm the Capitol and rescue her before the chance arose.
Cersei looked up and her irritated veneer fell into place. She reached forward and gripped Sansa's wrist tight, twisting it enough for her to yelp out in pain.
"Please, you Grace — you're hurting me," she pleaded, unbidden tears rising to the surface.
"Do stop wailing like a milksop," hissed Cersei. "You're going to marry my son. I'll make sure of it no matter what your brother does." Her voice crooned with maliciousness, her words so forceful that spittle almost flew out. "My father will defeat your traitor brother and you'll bear Joffrey's sons, do you hear me, little dove?"
Or maybe Robb will give me your son's head, she thought viciously to herself. She pulled her wrist backwards as she felt a painful twist, and silver plates clattered against the table. Cersei held on, her grip was firm and her face twisted in spite.
"I will have your head served to me if you betray my son."
Cersei brought her face close to Sansa and twisted even harder. Sansa let the cry escape from her, her body trembling as she shook her head.
"I love Joffrey, your Grace, please, my brother is a traitor of the Crown — I have nothing to do with him! You know that!"
"My son will be cruel to you, there's no doubt about that," continued Cersei, finally letting go. Sansa cradled her arm to her chest, and a fierce red spot burned into her wrist. "But remember what I said — your children will be your greatest happiness in time. When you hold your son in your arms you'll cherish that feeling. I hope you take to heart my words."
A bitter taste like ash settled at the back of her throat. She'd rather throw herself from Maegor's Tower than bear golden-haired and green-eyed children for the King. Perhaps she'd see her precious Lady again. She'd never prayed and wished for something so hard in her life. Let Robb win and take me away from this place. Let me see my family again.
"Go on, get out," said the Queen sharply, turning her head away and slurring her words. "I've had enough of you for one evening. Let me be at peace."
As she left the room and lay her head down for rest, her final thoughts echoed in her mind, carrying her into the dark abyss of sleep. Please, gods, let Robb win.
Ooo it's been a while sorry about that. Got caught up in work and all that. But I had to get this chapter out and I was tired of staring at the word document. A change in perspective at least. Let me know your thoughts.