Chapter Text
Sansa smoothed the flyaways of her hair back into her braid. She tried to anyway, the braid kept getting looser at every touch it seemed and her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She fidgeted with her pale green skirt trying to get rid of the folds it made as shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
Behind her Ser Boros Blout breathed heavily.
He is angry , Sansa realised. He is fuming . She didn't dare look at him but could felt the wrath emanating from him just the same, like stench from the dead.
Anytime now the golden door would open and she'd be forced to answer to the King about something else Robb had done.
Sansa shuddered internally at the last memory. They'd ripped her clothes and beat her till the Imp commanded them to stop. The Hound had called for it to end as well she remembered.
Sansa wore the thickest gown she had over several layers of underclothes. Nothing would help of course if they'd decided to beat her again. If Joffrey wanted to hurt her, he wouldn't let anything - let alone some rags - stop him.
At last the door opened. "Lady Sansa," the Herald called, as she entered.
The throne room was empty except for the boy King and his kingsguard. He sat atop the Iron throne rubbing the back of his hand, scowling.
Sansa could feel the tension in the pit of her stomach.
"Your grace," she bowed, never forgetting her courtesies.
" You . You dirty little bitch," he threw something at her but it missed her by a good foot and dashed into a nearby pillar with a clang.
The Hound sniggered.
Sansa's eyes darted upwards, but by then he'd regained his composure. The smooth half and the burnt one, both stone again.
"You think you are so smart, don't you? You think you've got me all fooled." A red patch was forming on the hand he kept rubbing, where the throne had bit him.
"No, your grace, I'm just a stupid girl.. please mercy, mercy, your grace."
"I know about him." Sansa's blood ran cold. He's found out about Ser Dontos she realised. "I know you've been fucking him in the godswood. A fool for a whore!" He laughed and laughed swaying in his seat till one of the sword points caught his sleeve. He's drunk. He's angry and sullen and Gods… he's drunk.
He yelped and snatched his arm away.
He's furious. He'll kill me for sure, Sansa thought. The thoughts were ugly and unbidden. I hope that throne swallows him whole. She hoped it would come alive, all the swords curling inward as Joffrey would sink into the deepest hell there is.
"Your grace no - no your grace. I only pray in the godswood. I pray for you, my king. For your victory over Stannis and Robb and the rest. They're only pretenders, your grace."
If her words had any effect on him it didn't show. Send Lord Tyrion, please, Gods, save me," she prayed. She had to keep still. Sansa fought the urge to look up at Sandor Clegane.
"That fool thinks he can steal you right from under my nose. Do you want to know what I did to him?"
"No, please, no, your grace." Her Florian, her poor Florian. Lightning flashed up and down her body, her hands trembled and tears snaked down her face onto her neck.
"I did to him what the Boltons used to do to the Starks back in the day," a cruel smile danced on his worm lips. "Do you know what they used to do to Starks back in the day, Lady Sansa?" He pushed forwards, his palms pressing into the end of the armrests. He sat at the edge of his seat, swaying slightly, gleeful as a pig in shit.
Sansa wanted to say something but terror gripped her throat. No words would come out.
"The king asked you a question," Ser Boros stepped forward. After a brief nod from the King, he thrusted a gloved fist into her back. She fell on her knees and palms. Pain spread all over.
"I'm sorry, your grace, I wasn't trying to run away, I was only praying in the godswood. War scares me so, I'm just a girl, not as strong as you, my king."
"Enough wailing. I asked - do you know what they did to the Starks back in the day?"
"N-No, your grace." The Starks had been kings for as long as she could remember. Till Torrhen Stark had bent the knee to Aegon the conqueror.
"Tell her dog."
"They skinned them alive," the Hound's voice was dry as saw dust.
"It's so painful they begged for the flayed parts to be cut off," Joffrey was almost out of his seat.
"Should I do the same to you? Take that pretty skin off?"
She almost screamed. "No, no, please, please, your grace-" The sadness and dread she'd felt for Ser Dontos, she felt for herself now.
"Shut her up," the King said and another punch pushed Sansa further down. She heard metal scraping against metal and looked up to see a sword coming down at her. She curled inward, hands covering her head but the sword never came.
A loud clash. Steel on steel and then a loud thud somewhere far away. Her ears rang.
Sansa stayed low. The edge of a snowy white cloak rested by her chin. Two large black boots stood by her belly.
Somewhere far away, Joffrey was screaming.
A hand lifted her up to her feet, strangely gentle. He placed his hand on her. His palm almost as big as her back. And hot, like he is on fire inside. Sandor Clegane stood sword in hand, by her side. Blood dripped from it.
Boros Blout had fallen by the pillar, a goblet next to him. Blood and wine mixed as they flowed.
"How dare you? How DARE YOU? I am the king!" Joffrey shrieked.
"And he was going to hurt the King's bride, your grace," said Ser Arys Oakheart, from his position, farthest from the throne.
"Dog. Here," Joffrey said after a minute. The Hound wiped the blood on Ser Boros' cloak - while the man shrunk away, clutching his bleeding sword hand - sheathed his sword and took his place.
The ringing had gone down in Sansa's ears. She felt like she could fall any minute. But she willed herself to be steady and calm.
He won't kill me, Robb has the Kingslayer , she reasoned. But he could skin her, or beat her worse - who'd stop him? She shuddered. Tears and shaking breaths, escaping involuntarily. She looked at the doors hoping for the Imp, despite herself.
"No one's coming to save you. You're mine to do with as I please," Joffrey said.
"Yes, your grace," Sansa said, remembering her courtesies. Always remembering her courtesies.
"It was the Hound who found that fool. Tell her Dog."
The wind was knocked out of her. Sansa must have heard wrong. She gaped at her saviour.
This hurt more than the fists and the boots. I thought he was my -- friend?
Friends with the Hound? Even she couldn't be that stupid.
But she had been.
He'd given her his cloak. He'd spoken for her. He'd saved her life. He'd kept her secret when he'd found her wandering at night, and she had kept his...
Fresh tears fell from her eyes, still of mourning.
The Hound did not speak.
"Tell her!"
"It was me," his sawdust voice scraped her like nails.
She looked at the throne not wanting to see anyone. Sansa picked a sword to stare at. It was dull and blunt, the hilt melted down into the thorne. They can make me hear but not make me listen.
"Lady Sansa," Joffrey's tone changed again - almost silky now. It filled her with a different kind of dread. "I was rather hoping as my betrothed you wouldn't hatch anymore treasons, but I guess it runs in the family. The Grandmaester tells me that since you are a traitor I am held to no vow I made to you or your liar father."
Sansa couldn't believe him for a second. She did not have to marry him! At any other time, the thought would've made her ecstatic but right now -
Wringing her hands, she clenched her stomach. Despite all that had happened, the mere idea that she didn't have to marry Joffrey, or bed him or have his sons filled her with a lightness.
She'd be prepared for any number of beatings, any punishment he could think of - as long as she didn't have to give herself over to this monster she had once loved.
Or so she thought until Joffrey said, "Give her to the Hound."