Chapter Text
Sansa
The lilac silk of Sansa Stark's dress rippled softly as she moved through the room, the smooth fabric gliding over her bruised skin, hiding the fresh marks that dotted her arms. The long sleeves covered the scars left by Ser Boros, at Joffrey's command, and Sansa felt grateful for the thick, opaque material. The larger bruise, on her forearm, throbbed whenever she moved her hand, but she would not let the pain show. Not today. Not during another tournament, this time in honor of Joffrey's name day.
In the polished mirror, she gazed at her reflection, observing the image she projected. The lilac dress was a careful choice; the soft tone contrasted with her fiery hair, which she wore pulled back under a delicate net of selenite, a gift from Joffrey. It was a fine piece of jewelry, no doubt, shimmering in the dim light that streamed through the narrow windows of the Red Keep. However, the gift carried a weight she could barely bear. Every time the gem sparkled in her hair, Sansa felt as if she were wearing golden chains. It wasn’t freedom; it was a reminder of the power he held over her.
The sound of firm, rhythmic footsteps on the other side of the door made her heart race for a moment, but soon she heard the voice of the man sent to fetch her. Ser Arys Oakheart, one of the few members of the Kingsguard who did not make her tremble with fear, was outside. He wasn’t like Boros or Meryn. Of all Joffrey's guards, Arys was perhaps the least unpleasant. He was polite, and although he had never openly shown any affection toward her, he also did not display the veiled contempt that the others took pleasure in showing.
When he entered the room, Sansa turned with a discreet, controlled smile, the kind she had learned to wear over the past months.
"Are you ready, my lady?" Ser Arys asked with his usual formality. Sansa nodded gracefully, her heavy braid swaying in sync.
"Yes, Ser Arys, I am ready" she replied, as the knight extended his arm, a courteous gesture, to guide her to the tournament.
As they descended the cold stone stairs, Sansa felt an unexpected wave of relief. If Joffrey had sent any of the other guards, like Ser Meryn or the despicable Ser Boros, her body would have tensed, bracing itself for malicious glances or sharp comments. With Arys, at least, the tension was less intense. He didn’t seem to take pleasure in her suffering. For someone like her, that was already a small consolation.
Outside, the sky was clear, but what stood out the most was the comet still glowing on the horizon, a crimson streak against the pale blue of the morning. Sansa raised her eyes to it, reflecting on what she had heard about that sight in the sky. It streaked across the heavens like a flaming tail, untamable and mysterious, and everyone seemed to have their own theory about what it meant.
"The comet..." Sansa murmured, looking at Arys with a curious expression, trying to appear naive, as she had done so many times. "What does it mean, Ser Arys?"
The knight looked up, the light of the comet reflecting in his clear eyes. His expression was serious, as if he were about to pronounce an undeniable truth.
"Glory, my lady" he said with conviction. "Glory for King Joffrey. Look at the color, so close to the Lannisters'. It’s a sign that his reign will bring great deeds."
Sansa held back the urge to roll her eyes. Glory for Joffrey. The comet, with its fiery crimson hue, might as well have been a bloodied sword, or worse. In the corridors of the Red Keep, she had heard servants whispering, calling the comet a 'dragon's tail,' a superstition that made her think of old tales about the Targaryens. And deep in her heart, Sansa hoped the comet would bring anything but glory for Joffrey.
She forced a polite smile and changed the subject delicately.
"And the tournament, Ser Arys? Who do you think will win?" she asked, with a tone of genuine curiosity. Distraction was necessary; thoughts about the comet would lead to dangerous places. Arys smiled, a modest smile, as if the answer were already known.
"I will, of course" he replied, without any arrogance. "Although there’s not much glory in a small tournament like this. Most of the combatants are green boys. There’s not much honor in knocking them down."
Sansa made an effort to keep her expression serene, but her mind was immediately drawn to the tournament King Robert had held in honor of her father. That had been splendid, with renowned knights, many of whom were now dead. Today’s tournament was nothing more than a pale shadow of what a true royal event had been.
As they approached the makeshift arena, Sansa decided to ask something that worried her, but cautiously, as she had learned to do.
"And the King?" she asked, lowering her eyes and speaking as if the question were of little importance. "Is he in a good mood today?"
Arys glanced sideways at her, his gaze sharp, as if he knew what Sansa truly wanted to know. He hesitated for a moment, but his voice came out low and direct.
"Yes, my lady. He is in good spirits. And even if he weren’t, I believe the sight of you will please him." The knight quickly glanced at her lilac dress and the jewel in her hair. "You’re wearing a gift he gave. That will certainly please him even more."
Sansa recognized the subtle warning in Arys’ words and gave a slight smile, almost automatic. She knew what he meant. She knew she should wear Joffrey’s gifts more often, for he liked to show her off like a rare jewel, as if she were part of his treasure. But every time she wore something Joffrey had given her, she felt as if she were trading the memory of her family, the integrity of who she was, for all the luxury he could offer.
She needed to be better at this. She needed to please him. Manipulate him. And she knew that, for all his cruelty and fickleness, there was a reason Joffrey never allowed his guards to touch her face. He wanted to show her off, wanted her to be perfect for him. And if that was the way to survive, she would use her wit and charm like invisible armor.
The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden light over the field where Joffrey’s name day tournament was taking place. Upon arriving, Sansa felt her heart race. The red and gold banners of the Lannisters fluttered in the wind, contrasting with the deep blue of the sky. The seat reserved for her was, of course, next to Joffrey, and as she approached, the Hound announced her with his deep, rough voice.
"Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell."
All eyes turned to her, and Sansa felt the weight of those gazes, as she always did. It was like walking on thin ice, a single misstep could cause her to fall. Myrcella Baratheon, sitting nearby, looked up and greeted her with a polite smile. There was something almost sweet about the girl, like a distant shadow of what Joffrey could never be.
"Lady Sansa, it’s good to see you" Myrcella said with the polite courtesy of a noble child.
Tommen, on the other hand, stood up excitedly, his face flushed with excitement. He ran toward her, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a boy who could barely wait to share his news.
"Sansa!" he shouted, with contagious energy. "I’m going to participate in the tournament!" His smile was wide and carefree, the kind of smile Bran used to give before any mischief.
Sansa smiled at the boy, not forced, but genuinely, as if the warmth of Tommen’s innocence could melt some of the ice surrounding her heart.
"Oh, my lord, I fear for your opponent’s life" she teased, and the light laugh that escaped her lips felt so natural that she almost forgot for a moment where she was.
Tommen was delighted by the comment, laughing and running back to his seat, while Sansa turned to Joffrey. He was waiting for her, the imposing figure of a young, cruel king. His face was lit by the sun, and his green eyes, like the gemstones that adorned the Lannister shield, examined her from head to toe.
Sansa bowed in a flawless curtsey, her voice soft and submissive.
"Your Grace."
Joffrey nodded, as if granting a blessing, and the smile that formed on his lips was cutting.
"You look very beautiful" he said, his eyes still scanning every detail of her lilac dress and the jewel in her hair. "I’m glad you decided to wear my gift."
Sansa lowered her eyes, feeling the weight of his words, but kept the smile on her face. He was a king, and she was a queen in potential, though not the kind she had once expected to be. When she sat next to him, Joffrey took her hand before she could react. His fingers were thin and cold, holding her with a firmness that made her tense inside. But Sansa forced herself not to pull her hand away. Joffrey’s mood, still gallant that morning, was something to be taken advantage of. An opportunity she could not waste.
The first duel was between Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Hobber Redwyne. Sansa kept a watchful expression, but inside her thoughts wandered. She had no sympathy for Meryn, and her disdain grew with each blow the man struck. Ser Meryn’s victory was swift and without glory. The lukewarm applause from the crowd seemed to reflect the same sense of apathy that was starting to overtake Joffrey.
Next came Ser Balon Swann, a knight of notable skill. He took down Morros Slynt with a brute force that left the crowd astonished. The knight was dragged by his horse, and blood stained the ground as the servants rushed to aid him. The man was still alive, but barely. The excitement of the crowd waned, and Sansa noticed Joffrey beginning to grow bored. That worried her.
She kept her gaze attentive, trying to guess how Joffrey’s mood might change over time. She knew the young king was unpredictable. Moments of boredom could easily turn into bursts of violence. Then Ser Dontos, of House Hollard, entered the scene, stumbling over his own boots, completely drunk.
Silence fell over the tournament field as the knight appeared, wearing only a single piece of clothing, completely naked from the waist down. Shock rippled through the crowd like a wave, but it was soon followed by collective laughter. Sansa held her breath. She knew what would come next, and she feared it.
Dontos, drunk, tried to mount his horse several times but failed miserably. Each attempt only made the crowd laugh louder, and Sansa looked at Joffrey. His face was serious, his eyes narrowed, the smile gone. That was not a good sign.
When Ser Dontos gave up trying to mount the horse, clumsily asking for more wine, Joffrey suddenly stood, his expression dark.
"Someone drown this fool in a barrel of wine" he ordered, his voice cold and cruel.
Before she could think, Sansa heard her own voice escape her lips.
"No!" she said, her heart beating frantically in her chest.
Joffrey stared at her, his green eyes flashing with anger.
"What did you say?" he asked, each word laden with danger.
Sansa felt the blood drain from her face, but she forced herself to keep her composure, even though her voice trembled.
"Your Grace… killing a man on your name day… would bring bad luck." She felt the knot tightening in her throat, but she had to continue. "It could bring bad consequences for Your Grace... I... I couldn’t bear it."
Joffrey stared at her, his eyes fixed on her as if he were evaluating, weighing each word she said. Jealousy flickered in his gaze for a moment, and Sansa knew she had touched a sensitive nerve—she shouldn’t have shown concern for another man. He smiled, a small, almost cruel smile, but full of curiosity.
"Lies, Sansa. I know you're lying." His voice was low, cutting. "Maybe I should drown you too, since you care so much."
Panic gripped Sansa, but she forced herself to keep a calm tone, though her voice was choked with emotion.
"Your Grace..." she began, letting tears well up in her eyes, making sure Joffrey thought her emotion was for him. "I couldn’t bear anything happening to you because of this. Not on your day... not on your name day."
She let the emotion pour into her words, allowing it to seem as though her concern was for him and not for the knight she barely knew. Joffrey watched her, his eyes curious, the smile growing at the corner of his mouth. He sat back down and took her hand again, this time more gently, his thumb stroking her skin in a manner almost pleasant.
"Let the fool go" Joffrey ordered, still looking at her. "But I will kill him tomorrow."
Sansa could hardly believe it. She had succeeded. The relief was immediate, but she knew she couldn’t stop there.
"He is just a fool, Your Grace" she murmured, using all her strength to smile and stroke Joffrey’s hand softly. "Perhaps he could be your new fool. That would make more sense."
Joffrey looked at her with renewed interest, the smile on his lips widening. He seemed to consider the idea.
"A fool, huh?" he muttered. "Very well. The man shall be my fool."
Ser Dontos, now sober at the prospect of being saved, quickly knelt.
"Thank you, Your Grace." His voice trembled, but it was Sansa he truly addressed with his eyes, a clear note of gratitude in his tone.
Sansa looked back, a spark of hope igniting in her heart. She had done the impossible. And, more importantly, she had pleased Joffrey.
The atmosphere in the tournament field was electrifying, with the laughter and murmurs of the crowd still buzzing in the air after Ser Dontos' embarrassment. Sansa, seated beside Joffrey, kept her hands in her lap, trying to ignore the cold touch of his fingers. But now all attention turned to the next act of the spectacle: the young prince Tommen Baratheon, dressed as a miniature knight, preparing for his own duel.
Squires hurried around Tommen, who looked even smaller inside his silver and crimson armor, with gold details that gleamed in the sunlight. Sansa watched as they fastened the buckles and placed the helmet on his head, trying not to show her concern. The boy, with his wide eyes and nervous smile, struggled to mount the small pony waiting for him, a modest horse but suitable for his age.
Tommen, always kind and sweet, brandished a long silver sword, more of an ornament than a real weapon, but still elegant, perfect for a ten-year-old boy’s hands. His smile broadened, and the prince made a dramatic gesture, raising the sword high.
"Casterly Rock!" he shouted with all the enthusiasm his small stature allowed him.
The crowd cheered in response. Even though they knew it was more a performance than a real duel, the cheers echoed through the Lannister banners. Sansa added her voice to the others, smiling at the prince, whom she couldn’t help but like. He reminded her of Bran in some ways. Innocent. Pure. Like Bran was before the fall.
Tommen spurred his pony forward toward the "warrior" awaiting him: a grotesque straw figure, dressed in padded armor, mounted on a mechanism that spun with impact. Tommen’s sword clinked against the fake armor, the blow echoing hollowly across the field. The crowd applauded, perhaps more out of courtesy than genuine excitement.
Sansa clasped her hands, feeling a strange tension build inside her. The battle, if it could even be called that, seemed innocent enough. But then the quintain spun, the mace the dummy held swung violently, striking the back of the young prince’s neck. The impact wasn’t fatal, but it was enough to knock Tommen from his saddle with a heavy thud onto the ground.
The crowd was silent for a second. Then Joffrey was the first to break the silence, exploding into laughter. He laughed, loud and clear, as if it were the funniest joke he had ever witnessed. The sound echoed in Sansa’s head as she watched Tommen, dazed, trying to get up with the help of the squires.
Beside them, Myrcella quickly stood and ran to her brother, clear concern in her eyes. Sansa felt a knot form in her stomach, and before she could restrain herself, she turned to Joffrey.
"Your Grace, perhaps you should see how your brother is" she suggested, trying to keep her voice sweet despite the growing irritation.
Joffrey glanced at her sideways, still laughing, but with less intensity.
"And why would I do that?" He shook his head, as if the idea was absurd. "I don’t care if he’s hurt. It was just a child’s game."
Sansa felt a wave of indignation surge in her chest. It wasn’t just Joffrey’s disregard for his own brother that angered her, but the cruelty he displayed without any remorse. Tommen didn’t deserve this. He was just a child.
"But he’s your brother, Your Grace" she said, with a little more firmness. "Perhaps you should console him. Tell him he rode well."
Joffrey shot her a cold, disdainful look.
"Rode well? He fell, Sansa. He didn’t ride anything."
She felt the heat rise in her face, the flush taking over her cheeks. She knew she should stop there, that she had already tested Joffrey’s patience enough. But something inside her, something she knew she should silence, wouldn’t let her back down. She was about to respond again when she noticed the Hound beside her, his warning look. He didn’t say a word, but the message was clear: stop before you go too far.
Sansa closed her mouth, her pride wounded, but before the silence became unbearable, the heavy sound of the gates opening echoed across the field. Joffrey turned abruptly, his expression irritated.
"Who ordered the gates to be opened?" he shouted, rising from his chair. "They shouldn’t be open! Not with the city in this state!"
All eyes turned to the entrance. A column of knights, mercenaries, and massive barbarians entered the field, mounted on powerful horses. Their armor gleamed in the sun, but it was the colors that caught attention: the red and gold of the Lannisters. At the head of the group, mounted on a large red-coated horse, was Tyrion Lannister.
Tommen, still recovering from his fall, spotted his uncle and ran to him, his eyes shining with joy.
"Uncle!" the boy cried, nearly tripping over his own legs as he ran.
Tyrion laughed, a warm laugh, and patted his nephew on the back as he embraced him. The scene was somewhat comical: the two were nearly the same height, but the affection between them was genuine. After Tommen, Myrcella also ran to Tyrion, arms open. The dwarf lifted her with effort and spun her in the air, eliciting laughter from the girl.
Sansa watched in silence, her eyes fixed on Tyrion. He seemed such a stark contrast to Joffrey. Where the king was cruel and merciless, Tyrion seemed kind, almost paternal. When he finally approached Joffrey, he greeted the king with a slight smile.
"They said you were dead" Joffrey commented disdainfully.
"Thanks to the Gods, I am not" Tyrion replied, unfazed.
Then, Tyrion turned to Sansa, his eyes assessing her for a brief moment before he inclined his head in a respectful gesture.
"Lady Sansa" he said softly. "I deeply regret your losses."
Caught off guard, Sansa hesitated for a moment. She didn’t know exactly what to say. The words seemed to slip from her mind until, almost without thinking, she said:
"And I regret that my mother made you a prisoner."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, surprised by her response, but said nothing. He simply nodded with a small smile.
Then he turned back to Joffrey.
"I’m sorry for your father’s death, Your Grace."
Joffrey merely shrugged, indifferent.
"The council is with my mother" Joffrey said brusquely, showing little interest. "Jaime was captured, and we lost Riverrun."
Tyrion nodded, his expression more serious now.
"I’ll go to her then." He gave Joffrey and Sansa one last look before departing. "We’ll see each other soon."
Tyrion left, and Sansa noticed the irritation on Joffrey’s face. He didn’t like his uncle’s presence, that much was clear. Still, Joffrey decided to stay for the remainder of the duels, and Sansa kept silent. The tournament continued, and Arys Oakheart emerged as the victor, just as had been predicted.
When the tournament finally ended, Joffrey congratulated the knight, promising him twenty thousand gold dragons. It was less than the prize offered at the tournament in honor of Sansa’s father, but she knew better than to comment on that.
"Now, I need to see how the council meeting is going" Joffrey said with a sigh, standing and turning to Sansa. "Until later."
She curtsied, offering her hand reluctantly. Joffrey took it and slowly kissed her knuckles, the cold touch of his lips nearly making Sansa shiver. He then ordered the Hound to escort her back to her chambers.
On the way, Sansa remained silent, trying to ignore Sandor Clegane’s presence beside her. The man was coarse, and his appearance always made her uncomfortable. Yet there was something about him that made her hesitate to judge him completely.
"You almost got yourself in trouble again, girl" he said suddenly, his voice low and rough.
Sansa turned to him, frowning.
"I... I don’t understand what you mean."
The Hound gave a crooked smile, his irregular teeth showing.
"Don’t understand? Oh, you do." He shook his head, almost paternalistic. "You did well when you pitied Ser Dontos. Your display helped support the lie you told the king. But this time…" He chuckled dryly. "This time, you let your displeasure with Joffrey show. Almost ruined everything."
Sansa’s face flushed with shame. She looked away, trying to hide her embarrassment.
"I... I wasn’t lying" she murmured, knowing her words sounded weak.
The Hound laughed, a grave and bitter sound that made Sansa shiver.
"Girl, you’re a terrible liar. And the worst part is, you don’t even try to get better. It’s a shame. I’ve seen how easy it can be for you when you please Joffrey the right way." He looked her up and down, as if assessing her.
They arrived at Sansa’s chambers, and the Hound left her at the door, without another word. When she entered, she felt relieved to finally be alone. As she undid the complicated hairstyle the maids had crafted, her thoughts echoed Clegane’s words. Was he truly the monster he appeared to be? Or was there some bitter truth in his words?
She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed, her fingers slowly unraveling her copper-colored braids. Maybe, just maybe, he was right.
***
Tyrion
The walk from the tournament to the council wasn’t long, but each step felt heavier than the last. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, found himself lost in thought as he traversed the cold corridors of the Red Keep. He had arrived in King’s Landing only recently, and already he felt the weight of the intrigues that swirled around the court like invisible poison. The sun was sinking on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of red and gold, like the Lannister sigil, but for Tyrion, dusk always seemed to herald darkness.
At the tournament, he had witnessed Joffrey flaunt cruelty and Sansa struggle, not very successfully, to maintain the appearance of a submissive lady. But now, there was a more pressing matter ahead. He carried a letter from his father, Tywin Lannister, and he knew it would bring a storm to the council. He crossed a portal, arriving at the halls of power, and soon encountered Ser Mandon Moore in his path, a wall of flesh and steel.
"You cannot enter" announced Ser Mandon, his sword resting lazily at his belt, but his hand firm on the hilt.
"I have a letter from my father, Ser Mandon" Tyrion pulled out the piece of parchment bearing the golden seal of the Lannisters, holding it up before the knight’s impassive eyes. "Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, the Hand of the King."
Ser Mandon stared at him for a moment, cold as winter’s ice.
"No mercenaries" he finally said.
Tyrion sighed, casting a brief glance at Bronn, who stood at a distance, always with that air of indifference that both irritated and comforted Tyrion. Bronn merely shrugged, as if to say “do what you must.”
"As you wish" Tyrion agreed, keeping a smile on his face. "Unless, of course, you’d prefer my father come personally to ask why his son was barred."
Ser Mandon hesitated for a moment, but without another word, he stepped aside, making way. Tyrion entered the hall with a quiet air of triumph, his body small but his presence undeniable. Inside, the council was gathered. The room was thick with tension and surprise as he passed through the doors, the long tables covered in maps and letters.
The first to notice his presence was Cersei, and the instant fury on her face was as clear as day. Her green eyes flashed, and her mouth twisted slightly before she forced a sarcastic smile.
"What honor do we have today?" said Cersei, her voice dripping with venom.
Tyrion ignored the poison in his sister’s words and walked to the table, casually handing over Tywin’s letter.
"Our father sent a little reminder" he said, with the sweetest tone he could muster. Cersei took the letter with a suspicious look, tearing the seal with nervous fingers. She read in silence, her eyes quickly scanning the lines written by Tywin’s steady hand.
The silence in the hall was almost palpable as the council watched Cersei, waiting for her reaction. When she finally finished reading, she threw the parchment onto the table with a sharp gesture.
"This is ridiculous!" she exploded, her voice rising, a mix of anger and frustration. "He wants you to be the Hand of the King?"
"While I cannot return, your dear brother will look after the realm in my place... That's what he wrote, isn’t it?" Tyrion said softly, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips. "And what our father wants is what will be done. For the good of the realm, of course."
Cersei seemed ready to spit fire, but Tyrion stood firm, watching her as she processed the contents of the letter. The other council members – Varys, Ser Kevan, and Grand Maester Pycelle – exchanged glances with each other, trying to gauge the situation. The only sound that broke the silence was the closing of the doors behind them. Tyrion had dismissed the other advisors, leaving him alone with his sister. The storm was about to break, and he knew it.
"I will not allow this" Cersei declared, crossing her arms and glaring at her younger brother with barely contained fury. "I will not accept you as Joffrey’s Hand!"
"Well, then I suggest you go to Harrenhal and complain directly to our father. He’s dealing with a rebellion there, and I’m sure he’d love to hear your protests." Tyrion’s voice was soft, but sarcasm dripped from every word.
Cersei clenched her fists, her face flushed with rage. Tyrion could see the conflict in her eyes – she knew Tywin would never tolerate being opposed, but her pride wouldn’t let her accept Tyrion as Hand. She took a deep breath, trying to regain control.
"Why should I trust you to look after the realm?" she asked, her voice lower but still dripping with disdain. "You’ve always had your own game, Tyrion."
Tyrion watched her for a long moment, carefully considering his next move.
"Because we both want the same thing, Cersei." He stepped closer, his voice lower now. "We want Jaime back. Our brother is in the hands of our enemies, and as long as we don’t work together, he’ll stay there. You know that."
She hesitated, her eyes softening briefly at the mention of Jaime, but the steel soon returned to her gaze.
"Jaime…" she whispered, before raising her chin arrogantly. "Don’t think that changes anything."
"It doesn’t have to change anything" Tyrion replied, leaning slightly forward. "Just make it easier. And I’m the most suited to handle this. You know that as well as I do."
Cersei took a deep breath but said nothing more. Tyrion then changed the subject, knowing he had planted the right seed.
"By the way, who killed Jon Arryn?" he asked almost casually.
Cersei frowned, surprised by the sudden question.
"I... don’t know" she said, somewhat irritated.
Tyrion smiled.
"The widow of the Eyrie thinks I did it. Eddard Stark also thought we had a part in it, didn’t he? Because Jon knew something... something about you."
Cersei swallowed, her expression hardening, but her words stuck in her throat. Tyrion filled the silence with his usual touch of venom.
"That you were fucking Jaime?" he said with feigned innocence.
The sound of Cersei’s hand slapping his face echoed through the room.
"I’m not as blind as our father" said Tyrion, touching the side of his face, a victorious smile appearing. "I’m just upset you spread your legs for one brother and not the other."
The second slap came harder, but Tyrion endured it, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Instead of hitting me, dear sister, you should tell me how you killed Robert. After all, we both know it was you."
Tyrion kept his eyes locked on Cersei’s, daring her. The silence in the room was as thick as the stone walls surrounding them. He had played his boldest card, and now he waited for his sister’s next move. For a moment, it seemed like she wouldn’t respond. Her face was rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line of controlled fury, but Tyrion knew that look well – she was deciding whether or not to speak. He could almost see the thoughts forming behind her flashing green eyes.
Finally, Cersei crossed her arms and let out a short sigh, as if the words were a burden she was finally willing to drop.
"It wasn’t difficult" she said, her voice laced with subtle venom. "He was never difficult."
Tyrion tilted his head slightly, a silent invitation for her to continue. Cersei shot him a hard look before proceeding, as though she wanted her words to sting.
"Lancel did the job. You know how much Robert loved his wine. It only took serving him a cup three times stronger than usual, and he didn’t stand a chance. The boar only finished what the wine started." Cersei’s mouth twisted into a small, cruel smile. "It was almost... ridiculously easy."
Tyrion showed no surprise. He had long suspected something like this was behind the King’s death, but hearing Cersei admit it with such coldness reminded him just how dangerous his sister really was. He leaned back in his chair, an enigmatic smile forming on his lips.
"And what did you feel when you learned the boar had done the dirty work?" he asked, his curiosity genuine, though the provocation was implied.
Cersei looked at him for a moment, her eyes searching his as if she were looking for a trap in his words. But then, surprisingly, she relaxed. Not completely, of course – Cersei never fully relaxed around Tyrion – but enough to let slip a confession she’d likely only make to him.
"Relief. And satisfaction. The hunt was a success. And the feast that followed..." She gave him a cold smile. "The boar’s meat tasted like victory."
Tyrion chuckled darkly, without humor. The cynicism in her words mirrored the feeling in his own heart.
"You were born to be a widow, dear sister." He said it without any trace of mockery. It was almost a philosophical observation, as though reflecting on Cersei’s true nature.
Silence settled in the room for a moment, thick, filled only with the sound of their breathing. Cersei glared at him through narrowed eyes, her jaw tensed, but she remained silent. Tyrion knew that playing with his sister’s pride was like playing with fire, but there was something fatalistic about her life, as though she were always destined to lose what she valued most, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself.
Tyrion sighed, leaning forward in his chair.
"Eddard Stark’s death" he began, carefully keeping his voice neutral. "That was Joffrey’s doing, wasn’t it?"
Cersei looked away for a brief moment, and he noticed her hands clenching the arms of her chair. It was a direct question, but she didn’t like being cornered, especially when it came to her son.
"Joffrey was instructed to spare him" she said, controlling every word. "He was to be sent to the Wall. Stark taking the black would have given us a way to negotiate with the North... with the rest of his family."
The memory seemed to gnaw at Cersei from the inside, and Tyrion recognized the weight of regret in her words. She was too proud to admit it, but he could see that Eddard Stark’s execution hadn’t been her plan.
"Joffrey wanted more" Cersei continued, her tone hardening. "A spectacle. He thought Stark’s head was what the people needed to fear him, to respect him. Ser Ilyn moved before I could do anything."
She gripped the arms of the chair tightly, as if she wanted to crush something beyond her reach. The frustration was evident. Cersei had lost control at that crucial moment, and the price had been the war now surrounding them.
"So it was Joffrey" Tyrion murmured, more to himself than to his sister. "The boy demanded Eddard Stark’s head."
He could visualize the moment clearly: Joffrey on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, eager to show his power. There was something deeply unsettling about his nephew’s desire to assert authority through fear and violence. Tyrion knew how easily that could backfire.
"And Janos Slynt?" he asked next, shifting the topic. "I hear he was involved, holding Stark’s head. Whose brilliant idea was it to give him Harrenhal and put him on the council?"
Cersei rolled her eyes, impatient. Tyrion noticed that, to her, this was just another minor detail in the game.
"Littlefinger took care of that" she said with slight disdain. "We needed Slynt’s men. Stark was already conspiring with Renly and Stannis. We couldn’t let them gain any advantage. Besides, Sansa came to me and told me about her father’s plans."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Sansa told?" The surprise in his voice was genuine. 'She doesn’t seem like the type who would betray her own family."
Cersei smiled, a smile laden with sadistic pride.
"She didn’t know what she was doing" Cersei explained. "She was completely blinded by her love for Joffrey. Stark didn’t tell her the reason he wanted her back in Winterfell. The girl thought she was being sent away just because her father wished it, and in an attempt to stay here, she told me everything she knew."
Tyrion shook his head slowly. Sansa Stark, young and naive, had been used without even realizing it. And now she was trapped in a place where no one could truly protect her. He knew enough about life at court to understand that innocence was a fatal weakness.
"Impressive how Joffrey managed to get everything wrong..." Tyrion thought silently, referring to Joffrey. A slight sigh escaped him as he pondered the situation.
"You realize that Joffrey is intimidating her, don’t you?" Tyrion finally said, his tone cautious. "He’s instilling fear in her, and that’s not safe for us. Fear can turn against us, and we don’t have many options with the Starks."
Cersei laughed, a dry and short sound.
"Sansa is only 14, Tyrion. Fear is enough to keep her under control. She won’t cause us any trouble."
Tyrion pursed his lips, unconvinced. Cersei believed too much in the power of intimidation, something she used as a natural tool. But Tyrion knew it wasn’t enough, especially with someone like Sansa, who now had every reason to nurture a deep hatred for them.
"Fear is a tool, yes" he said more cautiously "but it shouldn’t be the only resource. Joffrey should at least try to apologize, or offer some kind of lie. Say he felt forced to kill her father, that he was under pressure. That could lessen Sansa’s hatred. Make it clear that he did it for the crown, not out of cruelty."
Cersei stared at him, a disbelieving smile forming at the corner of her lips.
"You want him to apologize? Joffrey? He’s the king, Tyrion. And kings don’t apologize.''
"It’s not about sincere apologies" Tyrion retorted. "It’s about survival. If Sansa harbors enough hatred, she could turn the game against us in ways we can’t imagine. A queen must be at least somewhat satisfied with the king she will serve, even if it’s through a façade of lies. That would give her reasons to think twice before betraying Joffrey."
Cersei crossed her arms, laughing softly.
"You think too much" she said. "Fear is already enough."
Tyrion sighed, defeated. Cersei could be obstinate, but there were moments when it blinded her to the most obvious traps.
"I’ll retire to my chambers" Tyrion said, standing up.
He was already turning when Cersei interrupted him.
"And what do you plan to do about freeing Jaime?" she asked, her voice tense.
Tyrion stopped, looking at her over his shoulder.
"I’m working on it. First, I need to take the pulse of the city" he responded evasively.
Cersei pressed her lips together.
"You have my support, but I expect you to share your plans with me. I want to know everything."
Tyrion smiled, leaning slightly in false agreement.
"Of course, my dear sister. Always."
He was lying, blatantly. Tyrion turned again and walked toward the door but stopped abruptly, remembering something.
"And Arya Stark?" he asked, turning back again. "I didn’t see her in the courtyard. Is she safe?"
Cersei scoffed.
"The girl escaped before we could capture her. But I spread the word that we have both sisters. We can’t leave the Starks with hope."
Tyrion felt a wave of irritation but held it back.
"Then make sure you take good care of Sansa Stark" he said, more sharply than he intended. "We can’t afford to lose both girls."
As he left, Tyrion thought to himself that he would have to personally handle the matter. Cersei was too blind to deal with something as delicate as Sansa.
Tyrion found himself in the shadow of the Red Keep’s great towers, the weight of responsibility growing heavier on his shoulders. Instead of heading to his chambers, as he had promised Cersei, he made a different decision. He gathered a dozen Lannister guards, his loyal men, and left the Keep, heading toward the streets of King’s Landing. The chaos of the city didn’t surprise him, but with each step, the signs of disorder and neglect made his mind work even faster.
When they passed through the drawbridge, Tyrion noticed the impaled heads on the wall. They were black with rot, unrecognizable, but the smell, mixed with the wind, was unmistakable. The repulsive sight brought back unpleasant memories of other places, other executions, and reminded him that fear was the throne’s primary weapon here.
"Captain Vylarr" Tyrion called with his hoarse voice, his eyes fixed on the heads "I want those damned heads removed from the walls. By tomorrow morning, let the silent sisters deal with them. You can’t expect a kingdom to function when decomposing corpses are the first sight the citizens see."
Vylarr hesitated for a brief moment.
"My lord, the King wouldn’t be pleased. He ordered that..."
Tyrion interrupted, with the patience of someone already tired of dealing with arrogant youths like Joffrey.
"The King just turned sixteen, Vylarr." He cast a threatening look "If you prefer to disobey my orders, don’t be surprised if your head is the next one to decorate the wall."
The captain, clearly shaken, bowed in acceptance and promised to take care of the matter.
With that resolved, Tyrion continued through the streets of King’s Landing. The disorder was palpable; the streets were filthy, and the smell of death mingled with that of rotting meat and feces. In the distance, a pack of wild dogs gnawed at the corpse of a naked man, his white bones poking through the tattered flesh. It was a reflection of the hunger and desperation gripping the city.
The lack of food now that the Reach was at war with the Lannisters created an unsustainable situation. The Tyrells’ blockade on the roads was causing prices to skyrocket, and what once was a king’s feast had now been reduced to roasted rats on skewers, sold by men desperate for a coin. Men who, in normal times, would never have stooped so low.
Tyrion walked in silence, his face serious, as he observed the horror around him. Much work to be done, he thought. Much work for someone so small with such a great responsibility. The weight of being the Hand of the King was heavier than anyone could imagine.
After some time, they arrived at the inn where Tyrion had met the previous night. He turned to Vylarr, the guards stopping at his command.
"Wait here. Don’t take too long; I need a moment to speak with my companions."
Vylarr agreed, though he still seemed uncomfortable with the situation. Tyrion entered the inn and immediately heard Chella’s loud laughter, that deep, vibrant laugh that was unmistakable, and soon after, Shae’s soft laughter. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to relax, but his moment of relief was interrupted when he saw who else was there.
Varys.
The eunuch watched him with his bright eyes, always attentive, always smiling. How Varys had found the place so quickly was something Tyrion questioned, but he wouldn’t show surprise.
"Lord Tyrion, what a pleasure to see you" Varys said, rising smoothly. "I was on my way to the Red Keep, but I suddenly felt the urge to meet the young lady who so enchants you."
Shae laughed, flattered by the title, and Tyrion cast a quick glance, noticing the proud gleam in her eyes. Varys played his pieces masterfully, and Tyrion knew the eunuch was pleased to have found his lover so quickly. It was a victory for Varys, even if a silent one.
"She is charming, isn't she?" Tyrion replied with a rehearsed smile, but his eyes held a subliminal message: "Don't touch her. Don't you dare."
The three settled down, and Varys began to speak with the ease of someone who always knew what to say. He praised Chella's ear necklace, a grotesque piece but one that held great value to the men of the mountains.
"You must have defeated many men to obtain such an impressive necklace" Varys commented, his voice velvety.
Chella nodded, proud.
"There's no glory in cutting the ear of a man already fallen. The humiliation must be complete."
They laughed, and the conversation flowed for a few more minutes, with Varys weaving comments about the chaos in the city, the danger lurking in the streets, and how order needed to be restored before everything collapsed entirely.
"I'm sure you'll find a solution to the city's problems, Lord Tyrion" Varys said with an enigmatic smile before standing up. "But I don't want to take up more of your precious time with your lovely company. I just wanted to welcome you."
Tyrion returned the smile, hiding the irritation growing in his chest. Varys always knew more than he should, and his ability to appear at the most inopportune moments was something Tyrion had learned to endure.
As soon as Varys left, Shae pulled Tyrion upstairs with a playful giggle. Chella still drank and laughed in the hall, while Tyrion followed his lover to the bedroom.
"It’s late, Shae" he said as the young brunette undressed, revealing her body. "I should be going. I need to speak with my nephew."
Shae pouted, her eyes sparkling under the flickering candlelight.
"My lion will miss me tonight when he goes to bed" she murmured.
Tyrion laughed, pulling her close and ignoring, for a moment, the cruel reality outside. His hands explored Shae's body with the familiarity of someone who knew every curve, and soon they were entangled, moving with a voracious rhythm. Shae moaned and scratched him hard, and Tyrion, for a brief moment, allowed himself to be swept away until the physical satisfaction brought him back to his sharp mind.
He remembered that this wasn’t love. It was an illusion, a trade of favors and pleasures. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled.
"My fierce lion" Shae whispered, lying on his chest while he held one of her breasts. But Tyrion already regretted having to get up and leave the warmth of her body.
"I’ll be back soon" he promised, already pulling away.
Shae, pouting, asked:
"Do you prefer your nephew's company to mine?"
Tyrion laughed.
"I’d even prefer the roasted rats they sell on the streets to spending the night with Joffrey. But, darling, it’s a necessary evil."
***
Joffrey
Joffrey reclined in the leather chair, the tense expression softening as his eyes followed the movements of the prostitute before him. She moved with the grace of a shadow, removing her clothes with deliberate slowness, a spectacle meant to provoke but only eliciting a disdainful smile from him. Fool, he thought. She had no idea what awaited her.
His gaze swept over the slim body of the woman as she untied the ribbons of her dress, revealing the outline of her bare shoulders. She was beautiful, no doubt, and her skin reflected the torchlight flickering on the walls. He almost wondered if she would be able to endure what he had in mind, but the thought didn’t trouble him for long. Whether she endured it or not didn’t matter. Joffrey rarely cared about others' satisfaction—for him, the important thing was his own pleasure. And pleasure, for Joffrey, was often a matter of control and power.
However, that night, he was restless. The tournament held in his name had been... disappointing. Where were the worthy knights? Where were the men who should have fought to the death to entertain their king? He barely had the chance to spill blood. It was almost an insult. A shadow of frustration crossed his face as he recalled the knight he intended to kill. But he didn’t. And all because of Sansa.
Sansa Stark. Her name made him clench his teeth. There was something irritatingly true about the words she used when pleading for mercy for the condemned knight. She had looked at him with such wide, sincere eyes, begging him not to stain the day of his name with blood. "It would bring bad luck," she had said, with a concern he hadn’t expected. What surprised him even more was that he listened to her. He, the king, yielding to the whims of a girl from the North? It shamed him, and the memory burned like embers beneath his skin.
He stroked the arm of the chair, his fingers digging into the leather as the prostitute let the last piece of clothing fall. She approached, her naked body moving gracefully toward him, a small smile on her painted lips. Joffrey let his eyes wander over the curves of her breasts and the lines of her smooth belly, but his mind was elsewhere. Sansa had more courage than he thought, and that infuriated him. How could she have such boldness, especially when she should be completely his? And what was even more disturbing: it seemed she cared more for Tommen than for him.
Tommen. The mere mental mention of the name made Joffrey frown, and he couldn’t help but picture Sansa beside his younger brother. Would she prefer Tommen if he were older? Would Sansa have more affection for a sweet boy like Tommen than for him, the king? The thought made his stomach churn with a mix of hatred and jealousy.
"Is everything alright, Your Grace?" the prostitute’s voice was soft, almost syrupy, as her hands ran over his chest atop the doublet. Her fingers were delicate, but Joffrey almost felt them as irritating insects on his skin. He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment before relaxing his expression, forcing a smile.
"Just a bit of stress" he murmured, his words slipping through clenched teeth. He pulled her onto his lap with a firm gesture, lacking any gentleness, squeezing her breasts harder than necessary. The girl didn’t protest and instead let out a giggle as her hands slid to his member, stroking it over his breeches. Joffrey felt his body respond immediately to her touch, but his mind was still wrapped in dark thoughts.
As the prostitute worked to undo the laces of his breeches, freeing his already hard cock, he wondered why Sansa continued to fascinate him so much. She shouldn’t have such power over him. He was the king, and she, a mere daughter of a traitor. Still, whenever he looked at her, there was something in her gaze that defied him. Something that made him want to bend her, break her in every way possible. How dare she care more for Tommen? How dare she prefer anything other than him?
The prostitute’s mouth enveloped his member, pulling him back to the present moment. Joffrey let out a long, slow sigh, his fingers tangling in her hair as the girl's head moved up and down with fervor. She was efficient, he had to admit, but there was a part of him that felt... bored. The pleasure was there, of course, but it was hollow. He wondered if it would be different with Sansa. If she cried, begged, he imagined perhaps the pleasure would be sweeter. The thought made him tighten his grip on the prostitute's hair, pushing her head down harder until she nearly choked. Even so, she continued, determined to please him.
Joffrey smiled. Not because of the girl, but because of the feeling of control. The muffled sound of her moans as she struggled to breathe was almost music to him. When he finally felt the heat of orgasm rise through his body, he let out a contained grunt, shoving his entire cock into her mouth, holding her head in place until he had finished.
The prostitute pulled away from him, wiping her lips with the back of her hand and looking at him expectantly, like a dog waiting for a reward.
"Did Your Grace enjoy it?" she asked, a timid smile on her lips. Joffrey watched her for a moment, evaluating her as if deciding whether she deserved a response or not. Eventually, he nodded.
"Yes" he answered, his voice disinterested. He raised his hand and stroked the prostitute's face with his thumb, watching how eager she was to please.
"Are you ready for the rest of the night?" he asked, his voice soft but laden with a veiled threat. The girl nodded quickly, the enthusiasm in her eyes almost childlike.
"Yes, Your Grace, ready for whatever you desire" she replied eagerly. Joffrey let out a low laugh. She was foolish. So foolish.
Before he could continue, a sudden knock at the door startled him. The guard outside announced in a firm voice:
"Lord Tyrion, Your Grace."
Joffrey's irritation quickly returned.
"I won't receive him" Joffrey said abruptly, still running his fingers through the prostitute's hair. The smile that had appeared on his face a moment earlier disappeared almost instantly. The sound of the guard's voice outside the door brought back the latent irritation he always felt when things didn’t go his way.
"Lord Tyrion insists, Your Grace" the guard responded, without opening the door but clearly waiting for instructions. "He says he brings a message from your grandfather, Lord Tywin."
Joffrey snorted, his teeth clenched again as he pushed the prostitute off his lap with a brusque shove. His trousers were still undone, and he began fastening them, barely containing his frustration. It was always like this with Tyrion — the dwarf seemed to have an unusual knack for ruining any moment of pleasure he had. And now, if his grandfather was involved, he had no choice. Tywin Lannister wasn’t a man he could simply ignore, even if he wanted to.
"Get dressed" he ordered the prostitute, his voice cold. The woman quickly stood up, gathering her clothes scattered on the floor and starting to put them on hurriedly, her fingers trembling as she pulled at the laces of her bodice. Joffrey had already lost all interest in her. The laces of his trousers were properly tied when he waved dismissively to the guard.
"Let him in."
The guard opened the door, and Tyrion Lannister entered the room, his small stature contrasting with the confident air he always carried. He was a man who compensated for his lack of size with sharp words and an even sharper mind. Joffrey’s gaze followed each of the dwarf’s steps, irritated by the exaggerated formality Tyrion used as he approached.
"Beloved nephew" Tyrion began, making an exaggerated, almost theatrical bow. His voice was smooth, full of veiled irony.
Joffrey resisted the urge to tell the dwarf to leave immediately. The simple fact that Tyrion acted so casually always made him angry. But he bit his tongue, at least for now.
"Tyrion" he responded coldly.
Tyrion's gaze drifted to the prostitute, who was still trying to finish dressing, her hands nervous in the unexpected presence. She seemed uncomfortable, but Tyrion just gave a jovial smile, as if the situation were merely a minor detail.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself, my dear" Tyrion said with a contained laugh. "You hardly know the favor I'm doing you by asking you to leave."
The prostitute shot a glance at Joffrey, confused and somewhat reluctant, but a sharp nod from the young king made her rush out the door, her dress still somewhat disheveled. Joffrey felt his blood boil inside. He hated the condescending tone Tyrion used, especially in front of others. No matter what, he was the king, and the dwarf should remember that.
"What do you want?" Joffrey asked, sitting back down in the armchair with an exaggeratedly relaxed movement. He grabbed his hunting crossbow from the corner of the room, starting to adjust the stock and strings, not to do anything really useful but to give the impression that he was busy with something far more interesting than Tyrion's presence.
"What do I want?" Tyrion repeated, as if the question were strange. "Ah, actually, I came to wonder where you've been today. The Council met. And I thought perhaps, who knows, you might have shown up to witness the conclusion."
Joffrey shrugged, barely lifting his eyes from the crossbow.
"I intended to go. But I had a present waiting for me here in the room." He smiled sideways, maliciously, waiting for some reaction from Tyrion. But the dwarf merely raised an eyebrow, apparently immune to the comment.
"A present, is it?" Tyrion commented with a hint of humor in his voice, but soon his expression became serious. "Well, while you were enjoying your present, your grandfather was making important decisions. Including appointing me as your new Hand of the King."
The words hit Joffrey like a punch to the gut. He stopped fiddling with the crossbow, and his eyes locked on Tyrion’s, filled with barely contained rage.
"I invited Lord Tywin to be my Hand, not you" he said, his voice threatening. The mere thought of Tyrion assuming such an important role disgusted him. The dwarf? His Hand? It was a bad joke.
Tyrion, however, seemed almost amused by Joffrey’s burst of anger. He shook his head with a sideways smile.
"Your grandfather is busy with Harrenhal. And he thought it wise to entrust me with this honor. A dwarf, yes. But, nephew, at least recognize that I’m smarter than any of the counselors surrounding you."
The fury inside Joffrey grew, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that Tyrion’s words made some sense. The old Tywin had always been able to recognize competence, even in someone like Tyrion. But still, Joffrey couldn’t accept it.
"I won’t accept this" he said, his voice slightly raised. "I won’t accept you as my Hand."
Tyrion didn’t seem shaken. He shrugged slightly, a gesture too casual for Joffrey’s liking.
"Well, you may not accept it, but the fact is your grandfather has already made that decision. He trusts me to guide you. And if you’re honest with yourself, nephew, you’ll realize I’m more useful than anyone else you could choose."
Joffrey gritted his teeth. It was unbearable to admit, but it was true that Tyrion was smarter than most of the nobles around him. However, the hatred for being manipulated, for not having complete control of the situation, continued to simmer inside him.
Tyrion, seeing that his words had had some effect, proceeded in a lighter tone, as if explaining something obvious to a child.
"If you allow me to do my job" Tyrion said calmly "I can ensure that you’ll be a king loved and celebrated by the people. That would be something, wouldn’t it?"
Joffrey let out a cold laugh.
"Loved by the people?" He leaned forward, looking Tyrion directly in the eyes. "I don’t care about being loved, dwarf. What I care about is being feared. Fear keeps people in line. Fear makes them obey."
Tyrion sighed, as if he had expected this response.
"Ah, nephew, that’s just another sign that you’re surrounded by poor advisors. Being feared is useful, of course. But true power comes when those around you admire you and are loyal to you. When they’re loyal because they want to be, not because they fear punishment."
Joffrey frowned, displeased with the direction of the conversation. He hated when Tyrion tried to turn him into something he was not. The dwarf understood nothing. Nothing. And yet, his words made sense in an irritating way.
"Has no one told you, nephew?" Tyrion continued, his tone now grave. ''Being king alone doesn’t guarantee anyone’s love. And love, sometimes, is worth more than fear."
Joffrey scoffed, his lips twisting in disgust before letting out an impatient sigh. His hand gripped the crossbow tighter than necessary, his knuckles white with tension.
"What do you suggest then, dwarf?" he asked begrudgingly, his words laced with evident reluctance. He hated being forced to ask for advice, especially from someone like Tyrion. The fact that he had to listen to this infuriated him deeply, but despite his anger, he knew he had no choice. When Tyrion came with messages from his grandfather, Joffrey had to listen, even though every word was an affront to his dignity.
Tyrion tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider the question as if it were a profound philosophical matter, though the sarcastic smile on his lips betrayed the seriousness he tried to simulate.
"For starters, Your Grace should attend the Council meetings" Tyrion suggested almost casually. "In your absence, your mother always takes control. She’s the one giving the orders."
Joffrey shifted brusquely in his chair, the abrupt movement making his irritation clear. He hated when Tyrion spoke of his mother that way, as if she were an idiot.
"My mother is the Queen Regent" he interrupted, his voice rising a tone. "She does what’s necessary for the realm."
Tyrion, however, raised his hand in a placating manner, stopping Joffrey’s outburst before it could escalate.
"Don’t misunderstand me, nephew. She does what she can, yes. But with all due respect, she doesn’t always do what would be wisest."
"Watch your words, dwarf" Joffrey growled, already feeling his blood boil again.
Tyrion, however, remained unperturbed, keeping his calm, slightly mocking tone, as if explaining something obvious to a stubborn child.
"For example, your mother had a moment of clarity when she suggested you forgive Ned Stark and send him to the Wall. That would have avoided many of the problems we’re facing now."
Joffrey clenched his lips. It was an old wound, and he hated when Tyrion reopened it.
"He conspired to take the throne from me!" he roared, his eyes flashing with hatred as he recalled Eddard Stark and his betrayal. The memory of his calm smile while being judged still haunted him, a constant reminder of how he had dared to question Joffrey’s authority.
Tyrion tilted his head, with an almost paternalistic air.
"You have much to learn, young nephew. Diplomacy often has to come before what we really wish to do."
Joffrey gripped the arm of the chair so tightly it seemed like he might break it. He didn’t need anyone telling him what he should or shouldn’t have done. He was the king, after all. The king didn’t need advice, much less sermons. But Tyrion, as always, confronted him, forcing him to listen.
Tyrion continued, changing the subject with the same ease as someone changing clothes.
"But speaking of that, I’ve heard rumors today that you’ve been mistreating Sansa Stark."
Joffrey felt a disdainful smile form on his lips as he remembered Sansa’s frightened expression in recent days. Her fear and pain were a delicious form of control, proof that he held all the power over her life.
"She hates me" he replied, as if that were justification enough.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, looking incredulous.
"Of course she hates you" he retorted, with a slightly mocking tone. "You had her father’s head chopped off."
Joffrey felt his face flush with anger. The audacity of Tyrion to continue speaking with such disdain infuriated him deeply.
"Her father was a traitor" he growled. "She shouldn’t suffer for him. In fact, she should be thanking me for giving Eddard Stark a clean death instead of torturing him like he deserved."
Tyrion let out a brief, sarcastic laugh and shook his head.
"Oh, yes, of course. She should kneel and kiss your feet in gratitude for being... merciful." Tyrion shrugged, as if the idea were ridiculous. "Remember, nephew, Sansa went to you, knelt before the throne, and begged for her father’s life. You said you would pardon him... only to have his head cut off in front of her eyes. Then, you even forced her to look at her father’s head on the spikes of the walls, according to the whispers in the castle.''
Tyrion’s words left him unsettled. Joffrey pressed his lips together, feeling the blush rise up his neck. He hated when Tyrion made him look like a fool, and he hated even more when he was forced to face his own actions from a different perspective.
"I’ve given Sansa many gifts" he muttered, trying to shift the focus.
Tyrion tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with an irony that Joffrey couldn’t stand.
"Ah, of course, of course... Here, Sansa, some jewels to make you forget that I chopped off your father’s head, after promising I wouldn’t” Tyrion retorted, his words dripping with sarcasm.
The fury inside Joffrey began to rise again, that mixture of shame and anger he couldn’t control when Tyrion spoke with such... superiority. The dwarf always knew how to make him feel small, and that made him furious.
"The girl was smitten with you, Joffrey" Tyrion continued, now serious. "And you ruined it. But, you see, you could have fixed it. If you had gone to her, apologized, said you were pressured by your advisors... none of them would have dared contradict you. Sansa would have believed it because she wanted to believe it."
Joffrey swallowed hard. He knew Tyrion was right, and that only made the situation more unbearable.
"No use remembering that now. What’s done is done" he said, with a tone of defeat in his voice that he hated.
Tyrion shook his head, as if Joffrey were a naïve child who didn’t understand the basics.
"Nothing is lost. You can still change things with Sansa, but you must start now. Immediately."
Joffrey let out a short, humorless laugh.
"She’d never believe in a change."
Tyrion smiled cynically.
"No, of course she wouldn’t. Not at first. But if you persist, if you show you’ve truly changed your behavior, she might start to feel something for you again."
Joffrey shook his head, disbelieving.
"I don’t know why I’d bother. I already have Sansa’s fear, and my mother says that’s enough."
Tyrion’s expression changed, and he looked at Joffrey with a mixture of pity and exasperation.
"Your mother..." he began, but stopped, choosing his words carefully. "With all due respect, your mother is a fool. Believe me, nephew, having Sansa’s affection is far more valuable than just having her fear."
Joffrey felt the anger explode, and before he could control himself, he abruptly stood up, the crossbow now aimed directly at Tyrion. His eyes were filled with fury, his body tense.
"Don’t speak of my mother like that!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls of the room.
Tyrion, however, remained unfazed, the same mocking smile on his face. He neither stepped back nor showed any fear of the weapon pointed at him. Instead, he calmly walked over to the table, where he poured himself a cup of wine, as if nothing was happening.
"Lower that crossbow, Joffrey. We both know you won’t shoot" Tyrion said calmly, taking a sip of wine as he spoke.
Joffrey, not fully aware of what he was doing, lowered the weapon, still stunned by Tyrion’s composure in the face of his fury.
Tyrion set the cup down on the table, watching him with an almost paternal expression.
"Sansa’s affection would prevent a betrayal if someone in the castle decided to help her" he said calmly. "Besides, there’s no point in pretending. I know that what Sansa feels matters to you."
Joffrey let out a dry, forced laugh, trying to mask the discomfort Tyrion’s words had caused.
"Sansa is nothing to me."
Tyrion observed him for a moment, as if waiting for him to realize the obvious.
"No, nephew. You gave yourself away when you justified the way you treat her because 'she hates you.' You want her to feel something different for you. Perhaps you don’t even realize it consciously, but you want back the affection she once had for you."
Joffrey blinked, astonished. Had it been that obvious?
Tyrion finished the wine and set the cup aside.
"Now you know what you must do. You must attend the Council meetings and start behaving like the gentleman Sansa once loved. Start tomorrow, nephew."
He then walked towards the door, bidding him goodnight in a casual manner, while whistling some random tune. Joffrey stood there, crossbow still in hand, unsure of what to think.
He hated the dwarf. And more than ever, he hated the fact that Tyrion was, once again, right.
Notes:
Update (21/11) ⚠️: For people who are starting to read this story now (while it's around its sixth chapter), it's in the process of being formatted. So you might be a bit confused to see the first chapter with the characters' lines separated by quotation marks ('') while the next ones are still separated by hyphens (-). This is because my first language is Portuguese and that's what's common here, so as I was translating the story on my own, I ended up forgetting that in English the lines are separated by quotation marks... As some people have reported that they found this a bit difficult to read in my other stories, I started using quotation marks from the fifth chapter of this story onwards and decided to format all the previous ones, but I do this in my spare time, so it will take time for me to update all of them, so I decided to give this warning here in case of confusion when reading the next chapters, but soon they will all be formatted. 🙂
Chapter 2: Empty Promises
Summary:
"A man who betrays his own hand so easily is not trustworthy," Joffrey explained, with a seriousness that seemed rehearsed. "I learned that Slynt was already plotting to kill your father, even though I had not given the order. It was the best decision I could make, influenced by Tyrion, but also... by you. I knew you hated him, so I did that to please you."
Notes:
Good evening, everyone! How is your Wednesday going?
I would like to inform you that this story will be updated every Wednesday at this time (9 pm in Brazil). If there happens to be a Wednesday when I don't publish, just assume there won't be a chapter that week and that the next one will be posted the following Wednesday. I'm mentioning this because I'm entering a period that demands a lot from me at university 🫤
I would also like to thank those who left comments and kudos on the last chapter; they encouraged me to keep going ❤️❤️
Now, happy reading! 😄
P.S.: I will leave some clarifications at the end of the chapter for those who may not have read the books and might be confused about something.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion
Tyrion Lannister sat at the end of the long oak table, his small hands holding a robust wine goblet, though not to drink. The red wine, dark as blood, reflected the flickering candlelight, casting uneven shadows across the rough stones of the Red Keep. The room was silent, save for the sound of Janos Slynt gulping down large swigs of his wine, as if the liquid were as trivial as water. Tyrion watched, eyes half-closed, studying every movement of the man before him. Slynt's gluttony was as evident as his lack of refinement.
"You’re a generous man, Lord Tyrion," Slynt said, his voice thickened by the effects of the wine, followed by a short, harsh laugh. He leaned over the table, his breath exuding a mix of meat and alcohol. "This is noble wine. I’m not used to such fine things. In my youth, all we had was watered-down beer."
Tyrion forced a smile, slowly swirling the wine in his goblet. "Not for much longer," he thought. The liquid swirled into small eddies as Slynt turned his attention to the pitcher beside him, filling his goblet to the brim once again. A grin spread across Slynt's broad face, each wrinkle a testament to excess, to the abuse of power.
"Harrenhal!" Slynt erupted into a coarse laugh, as if the very idea was a spectacle. "I'll be sitting in Harrenhal before the snow reaches the North. A grand castle, they say. Cursed?" He let out another laugh, dismissing the idea of curses. "Let the cowards fear the shadows! I am Janos Slynt, now a lord, thanks to your family’s generosity!"
Tyrion maintained his thin, carefully calculated smile. "Cursed," he thought. "The fate that awaits you is far worse than ancient ghosts." He folded his arms, watching as Slynt filled his goblet for the third time, his face already reddened from the wine. There was something grotesque about Janos, a predator's satisfaction that knew no decorum or self-control. He had clawed his way up from the underworld of King's Landing to the highest ranks, but he had never shed his origins. Slynt's laughter reminded Tyrion of the sound of meat being chopped on a butcher's block — crude, violent, and inevitable.
"Tell me, Lord Slynt," Tyrion began softly, his tone innocent, hiding the danger that was about to unfold, "how do you plan to protect King's Landing now that you’ll be so far away in Harrenhal?"
Slynt blinked, momentarily distracted, as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
"Ah, don’t you worry about that. I’ve already thought it through." He leaned forward, as if about to share a great secret. "Allar Deem is the right man for the job. He handles everything. A man of action. Brutal, as one must be." Slynt let out another laugh that echoed through the room. "He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, if you know what I mean."
Tyrion nodded slowly, concealing the disdain he felt. Allar Deem was notorious for his savagery, the kind of man Slynt admired — a man without morals, loyal only to the highest bidder. To Tyrion, he was just another pawn on the board that needed removing.
"A man of action, indeed, no doubt," Tyrion replied lightly, as if praising a renowned knight. "However, I’ve heard of Jacelyn Bywater. A man many say is incorruptible, dedicated to duty. A man who understands honor."
Slynt snorted in disdain, waving a coarse hand in the air, as if swatting away an annoying fly.
"Bywater?" He almost spat the name. "A cripple, nothing more. There’s no use for broken men. The kind who hesitates when it’s time to do what must be done."
Tyrion listened patiently, each word bringing Slynt closer to the conclusion Tyrion had already orchestrated. It was easy to manipulate men like Janos Slynt; all you had to do was let them talk, and like Slynt, they would eventually dig their own graves.
"How interesting," Tyrion murmured, leaning forward slightly, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair. "And what role did you play in the execution of Eddard Stark?" The words were cast like a hook in the middle of a casual conversation, and Tyrion carefully observed Slynt's reaction.
For a brief second, Slynt's expression changed. His drunken eyes blinked with a moment of hesitation, but the confidence quickly returned, bolstered by the wine that dulled his senses.
"That traitor, Eddard Stark?" Slynt straightened in his chair with what seemed like pride. "I did what had to be done. The king ordered it, and I obeyed. Stark wanted to steal the throne from young Joffrey. The North... they always think they’re better than everyone. But in the end, they bowed their heads, just like all the rest. Eddard Stark was just the first."
Tyrion kept his face impassive, though Slynt’s words disgusted him. "The North doesn’t bow," he thought, recalling the Starks who had fallen and those who still resisted. But that was something Slynt would never understand.
With a small nod, Tyrion signaled, and the door opened, revealing Jacelyn Bywater, dressed in his black armor, his missing arm replaced by a hook that gleamed in the torchlight. He entered quietly, his austere figure radiating authority and severity, a stark contrast to Slynt’s vulgarity.
"What’s this?" Slynt asked, his voice suddenly faltering as he looked at Bywater. He tried to stand, but the wine made him sway slightly.
Tyrion kept his gaze fixed on Slynt, now with no need to hide his satisfaction.
"Jacelyn Bywater will be the new Commander of the City Watch," Tyrion announced, his voice sharp as a blade. "As for you, Janos Slynt, for past betrayals and current disloyalties, your career in King's Landing ends here. You will be sent to the Wall. Serve well there, or don’t serve at all, it matters little to me."
The impact of Tyrion’s words struck Slynt like a blow. He struggled to process what he had just heard, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"The Wall?" He repeated, the word sounding as if it didn’t belong in his reality. "I am Janos Slynt! A lord! You cannot send me to the Wall!"
Tyrion gave a small, humorless smile.
"And who will stop it? You?" He stood, leaning over the table, bringing his face level with Slynt’s. "You’re no longer welcome here. Perhaps you’ll find honor among men who haven’t abandoned it, though I doubt it."
Slynt, confused and enraged, tried to rise again, but two guards were already at his side, firm and ready to drag him away.
"No! My sons... my family..." Slynt stammered, fear finally penetrating his wine-dulled mind.
Tyrion watched him for a moment, allowing Slynt’s panic to sink into the room before speaking again.
"Your children will not suffer the consequences of your crimes, Janos. That I can guarantee." He paused, his final words a soft but decisive blow. "It’s more than you deserve."
As Slynt was taken into custody, his pleas filling the air with grotesque desperation, Tyrion sat back down, observing with absolute calm. Another piece removed from the board. And, as always, the game continued.
Tyrion watched Janos Slynt being led away by the guards, his pleas fading into distant murmurs as the sound of footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. He exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair as the echoes died away. The game had been played and won, but, as always, victory came with a bittersweet taste. Slynt was off the board, but Cersei remained — and she was far more dangerous.
The silence of the room was broken by the soft tapping of feet, followed by a voice, smooth and laden with subtlety.
"A clever move, Lord Tyrion." Varys entered the room with the grace of a cat gliding through the night, hands folded before him and an inscrutable smile on his face. "May I assume that our dear Lord Slynt will spend the rest of his days freezing at the Wall?"
Tyrion looked at him, tilting his head slightly, trying to decipher the intentions that always seemed to linger behind Varys's expression.
"Yes, Slynt will have the privilege of serving as a guardian of the Wall," Tyrion said, letting out a short smile. "Far from King's Landing, where he might cause trouble... or be manipulated by others."
Varys approached slowly, as if each step was calculated. He picked up the wine jug, pouring himself a glass with theatrical delicacy, as if to pass the time until the right moment to speak. When he finally took a small sip, his eyes settled on Tyrion.
"I’m curious," Varys said, his voice soft and almost casual, "what exact reason did you present for banishing a lord so... esteemed by the Queen?"
Tyrion let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
"The fact that he betrayed Eddard Stark, the former Hand, was reason enough," he replied bluntly. "I won’t wait until he decides to betray me as well, the new Hand. I’m good with bets, but I don’t bet with my life."
Varys tilted his head, as if pondering this response, his eyes observing Tyrion with that enigmatic glimmer that always seemed to hide more than it revealed.
"Ah, Eddard Stark." Varys shook his head softly. "A tragic end, no doubt. Such an honorable man, lost in the power games of King’s Landing." He paused, his thin fingers lightly tapping on the goblet. "And to think that Slynt had a role in it, though we know it wasn’t him who gave the final order, do we?"
Tyrion fixed his gaze on Varys. That was not news to him, but hearing Varys mention the fact made everything even clearer. "No, it wasn’t him," Tyrion admitted, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair. "Cersei. My sweet sister." His voice carried a bitterness he didn’t bother to hide. "She gave the order. As always, she’s the one pulling the strings."
"The Queen Regent has many strings to pull," Varys said with a thin-lipped smile. "And many hands to hold the blades." He paused for a moment, leaning slightly forward, his voice lowering as if to share a secret. "You realize, of course, that Slynt was just a piece? Even without him, your sister’s games continue."
Tyrion scoffed.
"Oh, I’m well aware of that." He stood from the chair, starting to pace around the room, his small hands gesturing as he spoke. "Even though I’ve managed to get rid of Slynt, Cersei still has the power to do whatever she wants. She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust her. But what choice do I have? Play the game. And to play well, I need to know everything, Varys." He stopped, looking directly at the eunuch. "I want to be one step ahead. To know everything she does, everything she plans. If I’m to defend myself, I need your information."
Varys gave a slight smile, his eyes gleaming with veiled satisfaction.
"Of course, my lord." He made an almost theatrical bow. "Information is my specialty. But trust, ah, that is a rare coin around here, isn’t it?"
Tyrion didn’t respond. He knew trusting Varys was like making a deal with a dragon: the eunuch would only be loyal as long as it suited him. But, for now, his information was valuable, and that was enough.
Tyrion approached the table, pushing the wine jug aside, as if the act symbolized his attempt to clear his thoughts amid the constant intoxication that power brought. His thoughts returned to that fateful day when Joffrey, with all his youthful arrogance, had ordered Eddard Stark’s execution. Slynt had been there, carrying out the orders without hesitation, just like Ser Ilyn Payne, the executioner who had wielded the sword. And Joffrey? Tyrion knew the boy was a puppet, convinced he held power, but merely following a script already written by Cersei.
"Joffrey thinks it was his decision to kill Eddard Stark," Tyrion muttered, more to himself than to Varys. "But he only did what Cersei wanted. The real decision was made long before he ever sat on the throne."
"Ah, power," Varys replied, his voice now almost philosophical. "A shadow on the wall, sustained only by the belief of those who surround it. Joffrey may consider himself king, but he, like all of us, is at the mercy of those who hold the swords. True power… is always an illusion."
Tyrion gave a short, bitter smile.
"Illusory, yes. Until the moment someone cuts off your head." He sat back down, crossing his arms, his gaze fixed on Varys. "But I prefer not to rely on illusions. I need something more tangible. That’s why I’ve controlled the City Watch, why I have Bronn and his mercenaries. I need men who are loyal… or at least loyal to the gold we pay them."
Varys tilted his head in approval.
"Loyalty bought, yes. But even gold has its limits, my lord. Today, you control the Watch, but what about tomorrow? Loyalty is a volatile currency."
"Which is why I want to know everything," Tyrion interrupted Varys. "Because if Cersei tries something, or if any other traitor is lurking, I’ll be prepared."
Varys, always prepared, revealed another of his reports.
"By the way, my lord, I’ve received news of conspiracies in the works. A galley captain is considering defecting to Stannis, and there are rumors that the Redwyne brothers are trying to flee the city."
Tyrion gave a slow nod, his mind already calculating the next moves.
"The captain… send him a message. His defection will be rewarded with his head. As for the Redwynes…" He paused, pondering. "Block all exit routes from the city. No one enters or leaves without my permission."
Varys smiled.
"Very well, my lord. And what of Timett? It seems he strangled a cheat last night. The man was killed with his own hands."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, surprised and pleased.
"Timett… Ah, yes. A useful man. With him, I don’t need someone like Allar Deem." He gave a mischievous smile. "I already have my own monsters."
The door opened again, this time for Bronn. The mercenary entered with his casual and confident gait, nodding at Varys before addressing Tyrion.
"Timett handles things his own way, as always," he said bluntly. "King’s Landing has its problems, but nothing we can’t handle."
Tyrion observed Bronn for a moment, pondering the man’s words.
"Tell me, Bronn," Tyrion began, his voice curious, "would you kill a child without question?"
Bronn smiled, his gaze cynical and calculating.
"I’d question the price."
Tyrion laughed, satisfied with the answer. It was brutal but honest. And, in a way, comforting. He knew where Bronn’s loyalties lay, and that was all he needed for now.
Varys withdrew quietly, and Tyrion, already tired and a little numb from the wine, leaned back in his chair, his thoughts drifting. He thought of Shae, at Chataya's brothel, and the dark corridor that would lead him to her room. A familiar desire stirred within him, a reminder of something simpler amidst the darkness of the Red Keep. Soon, he would go there. But for now, he still had a council meeting to face.
Tyrion rose from the chair, stretching his arms and feeling the weight of fatigue on his shoulders. The memory of Shae still lingered in his mind, but duty called him back to reality. The game was far from over. He sighed and made his way to the door, adjusting his cloak. Bronn was waiting outside, his ever-watchful gaze already accustomed to the routine of guarding the little Lannister.
"To the council?" Bronn asked casually as he began to walk alongside Tyrion.
"To the council," Tyrion confirmed, without enthusiasm, his voice slightly weary.
They walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, the echo of their footsteps blending with the distant murmur of busy servants and the occasional clink of guards’ armor. Tyrion knew that this meeting wouldn’t be easy. Cersei was furious, and when she was furious, no one around her escaped unscathed. He could almost imagine the storm awaiting him as soon as he crossed the door into the council chamber.
When they arrived, Tyrion pushed open the heavy oak door, finding the councilors already gathered around the large table. Cersei stood at the center, her face rigid and eyes flashing with anger, her hands clenched over the back of her chair. Littlefinger, ever the schemer, watched her with a half-smile, ready to suggest something dangerous, while Varys remained in his usual position of apparent neutrality. And at the head of the table, Joffrey, with an impetuous glint in his eyes, looked irritated and impatient. Tyrion didn’t know how he was treating Sansa after their conversation two days ago, but at least he was attending meetings now.
Tyrion took his place at the table, allowing the silence to hang for a few moments. He could feel the weight of the tense atmosphere. Something had already happened, and Cersei was on the verge of exploding.
"Ah, my beloved brother finally deigns to appear," Cersei said, her tone dripping with acid. She threw two letters onto the table, her hands trembling with rage. "We’ve received some unwanted visitors. Letters from Stannis Baratheon, accusing Joffrey of being…" She clenched her jaw for a moment before continuing, "illegitimate."
Tyrion picked up one of the letters, quickly scanning it. The firm, cold handwriting of Stannis seemed to mock the chaos it was sure to cause. The accusations were explicit: Joffrey was the product of incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister and therefore had no right to the Iron Throne.
Tyrion glanced sideways at Joffrey, who seemed to be absorbing the information with a mixture of hatred and confusion. It was a bombshell, and his reaction could be unpredictable. Then he cast a calculated look at Cersei, who, furious, was trying to maintain control of the situation.
"How interesting," Tyrion commented softly, placing the letter on the table. "And what do you suggest, dear sister? That we burn the letters and pretend Stannis's words vanish with the flames?" He gave a sarcastic smile. "A spilled wine cannot be gathered again, Cersei, much less a song sung to the wind."
Cersei glared at him, her voice vibrating with anger.
"We will burn those damned letters! And anyone who dares spread these rumors must be treated as a traitor. Tywin must not know about this, nor the realm. Stannis's lies must be stifled before they spread. My father must not find out."
Joffrey, sitting upright in his chair, narrowed his eyes, clearly confused.
"Lies?" He turned his face to his mother, doubt evident. "What is Stannis saying? Why would he lie about this?"
Cersei immediately stepped forward, her tone far too sweet for her own liking.
"Filthy rumors, my son. Rumors created to destabilize us. Stannis wants the throne for himself, and he knows he cannot defeat us in battle, so he spreads slander."
Joffrey frowned, and Tyrion saw the fine line Cersei was trying to walk. The boy, though cruel and impulsive, wasn't completely foolish. But it was easy to plant ideas in his mind, and Cersei knew it. However, Tyrion couldn’t let the situation become even more explosive.
"We burn the letters, and what happens then?" Tyrion asked, leaning slightly over the table, his tone practical and sarcastic. "What’s written here has already been read, discussed, whispered. No matter how many fires we light, these words will continue to spread." He looked directly at Cersei, keeping his voice low but hinting at what they both knew to be true. "After all, it’s not as if… these accusations are completely without foundation, is it?"
Cersei paled, and her eyes narrowed in a mix of anger and fear. But before she could respond, Littlefinger, ever the opportunist, intervened.
"A powerful poison needs an equally effective antidote," he remarked, the slight smile returning to his face. "Perhaps we cannot burn Stannis’s words, but we can discredit him. We know Stannis’s pride is great, but there are... rumors." He let the sentence hang in the air, allowing everyone to ponder the implications. "Lady Selyse. And his daughter, Shireen. Who knows, Stannis’s fool, Patchface, might have something to tell us about the good lady’s fidelity?"
Cersei looked at Littlefinger with an intrigued expression, clearly interested in the idea.
"Rumors about Lady Selyse?" The anger in her voice had diminished slightly, and her mind seemed to already be calculating the possible advantages.
Tyrion observed, his eyes narrowing. He knew that throwing dirt on Stannis was a valid but dangerous strategy. However, if it meant diverting attention from Joffrey and the incest accusations, then it might be the right path.
"Spreading rumors about Lady Selyse’s infidelity and questioning Shireen’s legitimacy could plant seeds of doubt," said Tyrion, analyzing Littlefinger’s idea. "But we must be careful. The more subtly these rumors spread, the more believable they will become."
Joffrey, who had been absorbing the discussion, finally spoke, his face twisted in fury.
"Stannis must pay for these lies!" He slammed his hand on the table with force, as if his rage could change reality. "Do whatever you want, spread whatever you like, but I want him destroyed. And I agree with my uncle, burning the letters will make it seem like we have something to hide."
Tyrion cast a satisfied glance at the young king. "Perhaps the boy isn't as stupid as his mother," he thought, though he knew Joffrey's impulsiveness still posed a danger. Cersei, on the other hand, seemed even more irritated to see Joffrey listening to Tyrion, the anger visible on her face as she watched them with suspicion.
"If Joffrey agrees," said Tyrion, with a subtle, almost victorious smile. "Then I suggest we start orchestrating these rumors. Stannis must be attacked at his own weaknesses."
Littlefinger nodded, pleased with the approval.
"I will have my men handle it, and soon the people will be questioning Stannis’s own blood."
Tyrion stood up, lightly dusting off his clothes, as if he had already done all that was needed there.
"I have other matters to attend to. And Joffrey, come with me. We need to discuss a matter that requires your attention."
Joffrey, his eyes still burning with anger, gave a curt nod and stood. As they left the room together, Tyrion could feel Cersei's gaze burning into his back, the suspicion and fury as clear as day. She knew she was losing ground, that her control over Joffrey was slipping away, and it enraged her.
Tyrion smiled slightly. "You’ve got it coming, dear sister..." he thought as the doors closed behind them.
***
Joffrey
Joffrey left the council room with firm steps, the echoes of his boots resounding through the halls of the Red Keep. The fury he had felt minutes earlier still simmered inside him. Stannis's words about his mother... what did that traitor dare to insinuate? He clenched his teeth but kept his face impassive. He wouldn’t allow anyone to see his anger. Not now.
Tyrion walked beside him, his shorter stride quick to keep pace with the young king. The dwarf was talking about iron and defenses, chains and enemy ships, but Joffrey barely listened. His thoughts drifted back to the letter Stannis had sent. Incest. Bastard. The words burned like embers in his mind. He wondered if there could be any truth to those accusations. Cersei had said they were filthy lies, but... he blinked, pushing the doubt aside. Stannis was a traitor, and traitors lie. Just like Ned Stark.
They arrived at the blacksmiths’ forges, where Tyrion had said they were to go, and the oppressive heat enveloped Joffrey like a suffocating embrace. The smell of coal and molten metal permeated the air, mingling with the sweat of the men working. Tyrion was immediately greeted by Ironbelly, a broad, soot-covered man with strong arms marked by years of hard labor. He bowed to Joffrey and then to Tyrion.
"Lord Tyrion," Ironbelly said, nodding in greeting. "Did you bring the instructions for the chain?"
"I did," Tyrion replied, pulling a rolled parchment from his cloak. "This chain needs to be strong enough to stop any enemy ship from advancing up the river. And it needs to be ready before Stannis or Renly make their move."
Joffrey watched in silence as Tyrion explained the details, his attention divided between his uncle’s plan and the suffocating heat that made him sweat beneath his royal clothes. He hated the feeling of discomfort. There was something about the blacksmiths' work that disgusted him—the sweat, the physical effort, the brutality of hammers against iron. It wasn’t fitting for a king.
Salloreon, one of the master armorers, approached with heavy steps, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He glanced at Joffrey and bowed before addressing Tyrion.
"Chains..." Salloreon muttered, with a tone of disdain. "This is crude work, something any apprentice smith could do. My talents would be better spent forging an armor worthy of His Grace." He cast a sycophantic glance at Joffrey. "A magnificent piece, one that reflects your greatness."
Joffrey, who had so far maintained a distant silence, turned to face the man. The look of disdain mingled with the fury that had been building since he left the council. A master armorer dared to question his orders? He took a step forward, and his voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Your role, Salloreon, is to forge links for the chain. Or would you rather end up wearing them, as a prisoner?" Joffrey tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on the man, who immediately paled.
"No, Your Grace!" Salloreon stammered, the words tumbling out quickly. "I... I will forge the links as ordered."
Tyrion, from the corner of his eye, observed the scene, and though his face showed mild concern, he did not intervene. Joffrey knew his uncle would usually advise him to be gentler with his subjects, but not this time. He needed obedience, not questions. He was the king, after all.
After the meeting with the blacksmiths, Joffrey and Tyrion left the suffocating heat of the forges behind and mounted their litters. The escort followed closely — Bronn and the Black Ears, along with the men of the Kingsguard. Tyrion had insisted that Joffrey make a visit to the city, where he should distribute food and be seen by the people. An attempt to mitigate the hunger and growing discontent among the citizens. Joffrey disliked these interactions. He saw the accusing looks, felt the distrust in every hungry face that stared at him as he passed by.
As they approached the main streets, he began to distribute bread and fruit to the women and children, as Tyrion had suggested. The desperate, outstretched hands grabbed the provisions quickly, and he kept smiling, even though deep down it irritated him. Those beggars should be grateful. He was the king, and he was doing them a favor.
But the people's eyes disturbed him. There was something in them — a mix of resentment and despair that made him uneasy. It wasn’t respect that he saw. It wasn’t adoration. It was... something darker. A silent hatred.
"Why do they keep looking at me like that?" Joffrey muttered softly to Tyrion, who rode beside him.
"Because they are hungry," Tyrion responded bluntly. "And hunger breeds anger, my young king. Don’t expect love from them while their bellies are empty."
Joffrey tightened the reins, his jaw clenched. He hated the people. No matter how much he did for them, they always looked at him as if he were responsible for their miseries.
''I’ve done what you suggested," Joffrey said, his voice low but filled with irritation. "Fishing boats, hunting areas. But it doesn’t seem to be enough. What more do they want from me?"
Tyrion looked at him, his eyes as shrewd as ever.
"They want survival. And until they have it, they will see you as responsible for their miseries. It is the burden of power, my nephew. You are the king. The throne is a double-edged sword."
Joffrey scoffed, his face contorted in a look of disdain. He didn’t care about the people’s hunger. But he could not deny that the situation troubled him, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
As they rode, his thoughts turned back to Stannis's letter. The accusation of incest still reverberated in his mind, like a whispering poison. He wondered, once again, if it could be true. If Cersei really had... He shook his head, trying to push the doubt away.
"Stannis and Renly will destroy each other," he said suddenly, almost unaware that he was speaking aloud. "I hope they kill each other and spare me the trouble."
Tyrion gave a slight smile, always aware of everything.
"Perhaps. But still, one must be prepared for any eventuality. Stannis is dangerous, but Renly has charm. And the people, just like the nobility, like to follow those who know how to enchant. We must be vigilant."
Joffrey didn’t respond immediately, but his thoughts were boiling. He was the king. He had the power. And whoever dared to challenge him would pay the price, be it Stannis, Renly, or anyone else.
Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the sound of the horses' hooves against the cobblestone street. Joffrey glanced once more at the people around him, their skinny hands outstretched, eyes filled with hunger and accusation. And he smiled, although inside he felt nothing but contempt.
"Let them eat bread and be silent," he thought. "I am the king. And they are nothing."
Joffrey watched the last pieces of bread and fruit being hastily grabbed by the ragged plebeians. The sight of their dirty hands clutching what he distributed filled him with a mix of disdain and satisfaction. "They owe me their loyalty," he thought, while maintaining a vacant smile for those still jostling in the crowd, as if his benevolence had truly changed something for them.
Tyrion, at his side, seemed unperturbed even in the face of the people’s hungry stares. He turned to his nephew as the guards began to prepare the litters for their return to the Red Keep.
"My mother will want to know what we are doing." Joffrey broke the silence, not taking his eyes off the people. "She won’t like to know that we were in the city. She always says I shouldn’t expose myself."
Tyrion let out a short laugh, not surprised.
"Ah, Cersei and her need for control." He looked at Joffrey with that calculating gaze that always irritated him, as if the dwarf were two steps ahead of everyone. "You can tell her what we are doing, my young king, but make it seem like you tolerate me more than you listen to me. Say you only do this to silence me, so the Imp doesn’t bother you as much." Tyrion's smile was almost amusing, as if he were enjoying the manipulation.
Joffrey scoffed, his mind already working on how to spin that conversation when he was before his mother. It was easy for him to say he didn’t listen to his uncle, but the truth was that Tyrion made more sense than most people at court. "But that doesn’t mean I like obeying him," he thought, with the ever-present anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
As the litter began to move through the narrow streets of King’s Landing, Tyrion spoke again.
"You did well to attend the council meetings," he said, casting a curious glance at his nephew. "But tell me, how are things between you and Sansa? Have you spoken to her yet?"
Joffrey hesitated for a brief moment, which was enough for Tyrion to raise an eyebrow. He knew his uncle was already sensing the truth even before he responded.
"I haven’t spoken to her yet," Joffrey admitted, begrudgingly. He hated the fact that Tyrion always seemed to extract truths from him, even when he didn’t want to.
Tyrion rolled his eyes, visibly irritated.
"By all the gods, Joffrey, what are you waiting for? We’ve talked about this. She is there to be manipulated, to be your ally, and you treat her as if she were invisible. Sansa is a useful tool, if you know how to use her."
"I’ll invite her to dinner tonight," Joffrey said quickly, before his uncle could continue with his sermon. "I’ll talk to her about what you said. I’ll treat her better... nothing too exaggerated, of course. Just enough so she doesn’t suspect. And the dinner will be to her liking," he added, with a hint of pride, "including the lemon cakes she loves so much."
Tyrion laughed, an unexpected and annoying sound.
"Ah, so you really pay attention to her, huh? You knew about the lemon cakes... very perceptive of you, my young king." Tyrion's tone was teasing, and Joffrey felt the heat of anger rise up his spine.
"Don’t start with that, Imp," Joffrey scoffed, irritated by Tyrion’s sharpness. The dwarf always seemed to know more than he should, and Joffrey hated being the target of his observations.
Tyrion raised his hands in a gesture of peace, but the mischievous smile remained.
"I’m not mocking, Joffrey. I’m just impressed that you noticed something about someone other than yourself."
The way back to the Keep continued, the litters swaying slightly as they passed through the narrow streets. The air was heavy with the stench of sewage, and the sound of plebeians murmuring in the distance filled Joffrey’s ears. He was tired of the city, tired of the people. He wanted to return to the castle and distance himself from all of it.
"Ah, and I almost forgot," Tyrion said suddenly, his voice casual, as if he were talking about something trivial. "I sent Janos Slynt to the Wall.
Joffrey stopped breathing for a second. He turned to face his uncle, his face incredulous.
"What?" His voice came out louder and sharper than he intended. "On what authority did you do that? Janos Slynt followed my orders on the day we executed Ned Stark. He was loyal!"
Tyrion, however, did not seem disturbed by Joffrey’s reaction. The dwarf sighed, almost as if he had been expecting this outburst.
"Precisely for that reason, my young king," Tyrion replied, his voice low and controlled. "A man who is so quick to betray an old Hand would not hesitate to betray another. Janos Slynt is the type who follows gold, not loyalty. He would betray your mother or me at the slightest sign of a better offer. We don’t need men like that near us. And I have reason to believe Janos was already expecting the order, which tells me he was plotting to kill Ned Stark even before you commanded it."
Joffrey was still trembling with rage, his hands clenched into fists beneath the royal cloak. "Who does he think he is, making these decisions without consulting me?" The humiliation of being outmaneuvered by his own uncle was unbearable, but he knew he couldn’t do anything at that moment. Tyrion’s power, while irritating, was necessary to maintain control of the city. And the fact that Janos Slynt had already been expecting the order to kill Eddard Stark surprised him; he would have a good conversation with his mother later.
"You should have asked me first," Joffrey muttered, his teeth gritted. "I am the king. Not you."
Tyrion smirked.
"And you are indeed the king. But real power lies in the ability to know who should be by your side, and Janos Slynt... well, he wasn’t beside anyone but himself."
Joffrey felt the fury burning within him, but he knew it wasn’t worth discussing further with Tyrion. In silence, he let the litter take them back to the Red Keep, the sound of horse hooves and wooden wheels echoing through the cobblestone streets. The anger pulsed in his mind, but he kept it contained. For now.
When they finally arrived at the castle and disembarked from their litters, Tyrion spoke again, as if the previous conversation hadn’t left a trace of tension between them.
"By the way, Joffrey," Tyrion began, with his usual casual tone. "When you speak with Sansa, mention that you yourself sent Janos Slynt to the Wall. Say you did it to please her, to show that you care about her wishes. Don’t mention my name, of course. She must believe the decision was yours."
Joffrey gave a vague nod, although the idea bothered him internally. Pretending to act for Sansa... was almost insulting. But he knew that to manipulate Sansa, he needed to play the game that Tyrion talked about so much. And in the end, he would be the winner.
"Yes, yes... I will do that," he replied, impatient.
Tyrion gave him a calculating look but said nothing more. As Joffrey walked away, he felt the weight of expectations growing upon him. He had a dinner to plan, and much more at stake than just lemon cakes.
Joffrey walked through the halls of the Red Keep with two guards right behind him, the sound of their armor echoing through the empty corridors. He didn’t need protection here, in his own home, but he enjoyed the feeling of power that came from being followed by men ready to obey any command. There was a certain anticipation in the air, a slight fervor that he rarely felt, but today it filled him.
Upon reaching the door to Sansa’s chambers, he signaled with his hand, and one of the guards knocked on the door, announcing:
"Your Grace, King Joffrey wishes to see you, Lady Stark."
Joffrey almost entered without waiting, but he held back. There was something in yielding to expectation, in forcing Sansa to prepare for his presence. He heard the muffled sound of light footsteps from the other side, followed by a response.
"You may... you may enter." Sansa's voice reached his ears, slightly trembling.
That elicited a small smile from Joffrey's lips. He pushed the door open and entered the room with firm steps. Sansa was there, before him, and immediately she curtsied in a graceful greeting.
"Your Grace" she said, her voice polite but tinged with caution.
Joffrey nodded slightly in response.
"Lady Stark" he said, keeping his voice controlled, despite the slight anger that always bubbled in his mind when he was near her. The image of Ned Stark still haunted him, and knowing that Sansa despised him only fueled his disdain for her. But today, he was there to be the attentive king Tyrion had told him to be.
He watched her closely, his eyes lingering on her longer than usual. Sansa was beautiful. Her dress was made of a light, flowing fabric, a deep blue that contrasted with her pale skin and coppery hair, which cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders. A silver ribbon adorned her hair, enhancing the shine of the strands and highlighting her deep blue eyes.
Joffrey felt a malicious satisfaction noticing that his prolonged gaze made her uncomfortable. Sansa looked away, her hands nervously clasping one another. He smiled.
"It’s a warm day." he commented, addressing the window, where the sunlight flooded the room, illuminating Sansa's slender figure. On a table near the window, he noticed a pitcher of chilled milk. He walked over and poured two glasses, adding a bit of honey to sweeten the drink.
"Drink." he said, handing the glass to Sansa.
Sansa hesitated for a brief moment before accepting the glass from his hand.
"Thank you.'' She murmured, her voice still cautious.
Joffrey smiled as he took a sip of the milk.
"The city is unbearable in this heat." He paused and looked out the window, where the streets of King’s Landing were bustling with activity. "I was out there today, in the streets."
Sansa looked up at him, surprised.
"In the streets, Your Grace?"
He nodded, pleased with the evident surprise on her face.
"Yes, distributing food to the people. A counsel my uncle, Tyrion Lannister, gave me."
"It’s... it’s good that you are concerned about the people of the city." Sansa said carefully, her words measured.
Joffrey set the glass down on the table and stepped closer to her.
"Yes, we must. After all, a king should take care of his people, shouldn’t he?" He kept his gaze fixed on Sansa, watching for reactions on her face. Her discomfort was almost palpable.
"Yes, of course" Sansa replied, still cautious.
Joffrey stepped back, maintaining the composure Tyrion had advised him. He knew he couldn’t push too hard, not yet.
"You must come dine with me tonight," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Ser Arys will fetch you later."
He didn’t ask her, nor did he need to. It was a veiled order, wrapped in a veneer of courtesy. Sansa hesitated for a second, her eyes betraying a slight tremor of fear, but she quickly composed herself.
"I will do as Your Grace wishes." she replied, lowering her eyes.
The anger Joffrey always felt lurking bubbled up for a moment. He saw the disgust in her eyes, the way she barely bothered to hide the hatred she felt for him. His immediate instinct was to order Ser Arys to strike her, just to remind her of her position. But he held back. That would ruin his plans. No, he would have to win Sansa back, make her look at him as she once did, with those deep blue eyes filled with love and affection. He felt a chill down his spine just thinking about it, and that only irritated him more.
He approached Sansa, took her delicate hand, and brought it to his lips. The touch of her soft skin against his made him wish to break her, but he kept the smile on his face as he lightly kissed her.
"Until later, Lady Stark." he said, in an almost gentle tone.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the room, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the silent corridors of the Keep. As he walked back, thoughts swirled in his mind. He would like to convince himself that he was doing all this just because it was Tyrion’s advice. The Imp had a clear logic about Sansa and the usefulness of treating her well. But deep down, Joffrey knew that what Sansa felt for him mattered. And that infuriated him. “She will love me again,” he thought, fists clenched. “And if she doesn’t love me, I will make sure she suffers until the end of her days.”
***
Sansa
The night was approaching, and Sansa felt the weight of Joffrey’s invitation like a stone in her stomach. As she looked out the window of her chambers at the darkening sky, the sound of water pouring into the tub echoed through the room. Rose, her maid, had prepared the bath meticulously, scenting the water with lavender, roses, and a touch of lemon, in an attempt to help Sansa relax. But the sweet fragrance wafting through the air was not enough to calm the whirlwind of fear and uncertainty swirling inside her.
Sansa approached the tub slowly, watching the small perfumed waves ripple across the surface. She wished she could sink into it and disappear, at least for a while, until that night passed. What could Joffrey want with her? The thought made her heart race. Would it be another trap? She stepped into the water, feeling the heat envelop her tense body, but instead of relaxing, Sansa’s mind was racing. Had Robb done something to irritate Joffrey? Would he use that as an excuse to humiliate her? The idea of entering Joffrey’s chambers and finding his guards waiting to beat her made her tremble.
She ran her hands over her shoulders, trying to rub away the tension she felt, but the image of Joffrey wouldn’t leave her mind. The anger in his cold eyes, the sadistic smile on his lips. So many times she had been tortured with small cruelties, and yet here she was, ready to submit once again to the will of the King.
After her bath, Rose helped Sansa rise, wrapping her in a soft towel. The maid seemed indifferent to her lady’s emotional turmoil, perhaps even ignorant, and began dressing her with the same efficiency as always. Sansa let herself be manipulated by Rose’s hands, which draped her in a dress specially chosen for the occasion.
The fabric was delicate and thin, with light layers of pale blue, almost silver, contrasting with her red hair. The bodice of the dress was adorned with silver embroidery, forming sinuous patterns that resembled vines, climbing up the heart-shaped neckline. The sleeves were long and narrow, gently tightening around her arms, but open at the cuffs, allowing the flowing fabric to fall softly around her hands. The skirt flared in subtle layers, giving the piece a fluidity that seemed almost ethereal as Sansa moved.
While Rose brushed her long copper hair, Sansa allowed herself to think of Joffrey. The maid, always chatty, spoke of him with a smile on her face, as if the young king were the most magnificent figure in the entire realm.
"King Joffrey is so tall and handsome," Rose said as she delicately ran the brush through Sansa’s hair. "He is everything a lady could wish for. My Lady is very lucky."
Sansa forced a smile, doing her best to appear pleased with the maid’s comment. She knew that discussing or expressing any other feeling could lead to trouble, but Rose’s words echoed bitterly in her thoughts. Tall and handsome, yes. That was true. Joffrey was already taller than most men she knew, even at just sixteen. Sansa remembered how, in Winterfell, he was already taller than Robb and Jon, even though the two were older than he was, which had only made her fall in love with him even more back then. How foolish she had been. How could something so beautiful be so cruel?
She shook her head slightly, trying to push those thoughts away as Rose continued to speak.
"When My Lady sees him, she cannot help but notice how he stands out among other men," Rose continued, and Sansa, even filled with bitterness, merely murmured an agreement.
When the maid finished brushing her hair, Sansa took special care in choosing her jewelry. It was not a trivial choice. Each piece had to be carefully considered, and today she had decided to wear only the gifts from Joffrey. This would not only please the king but also send the message that she was his faithful and submissive betrothed, as he expected.
She picked up a delicate gold necklace, with a small blue sapphire hanging in the center. The jewel had been a gift from Joffrey on one of the rare occasions when he showed a gesture of kindness — or, at least, what he considered kindness. She put on the matching earrings, small sapphires that sparkled in the candlelight. On her fingers, thin gold rings with gemstone inlays adorned her hands. Each piece had a purpose, and Sansa knew it.
When she finished, she stood up and went to the mirror, observing herself for a while. The reflected image was of a flawless young lady, perfectly dressed, adorned with the finest jewelry, and ready for any occasion. But inside, Sansa felt broken. She knew she could not look better physically, but the state of her heart and mind was another matter.
Soon, she heard a knock on the door. Her heart raced for a moment, knowing that sound belonged to Ser Arys, coming to escort her to Joffrey. She took a deep breath and prepared herself, keeping her face calm and her posture impeccable. It was the only thing she could control at that moment — her appearance and actions. Inside, all that remained was the fear and the silent hope of surviving yet another night beside Joffrey.
Ser Arys entered, offering a formal greeting.
"Lady Stark, Your Grace is waiting for you."
Sansa nodded, lifting her head with the dignity that remained, and left her chambers, ready to face another trial.
Sansa walked alongside Ser Arys Oakheart, but her mind was distant, lost in the fear she felt. The silence between them was thick, almost suffocating. Her good manners usually kept her always ready for polite conversations and small courtesies, but at that moment, not even that seemed enough to break the ice that froze her words. She was too nervous. Each step toward Joffrey's quarters felt like a hammering in her chest. Her thoughts spun in circles, dominated by uncertainty about what awaited her that night.
Ser Arys seemed to understand Sansa's nervousness. He did not pressure her to speak, remaining silent by her side, with a neutral but watchful expression. Sansa was grateful for that. The words did not seem to want to come out, and the idea of discussing trivial matters with anyone at that moment felt impossible.
Finally arriving at Joffrey's chambers, it was Ser Meryn Trant who announced her.
'Lady Sansa Stark, Your Majesty," he said, with his harsh and authoritative voice.
Sansa held her breath, her stomach tightening into a knot. The door opened, and she entered slowly, hesitantly. To her surprise, the hall was empty, except for Joffrey. There were no guards, no one from the Kingsguard in sight. She did not know whether this reassured her or terrified her even more. Being completely alone with Joffrey felt more threatening than any group of men ready to punish her. Her footsteps were silent, and she curtsied as she entered, offering a formal greeting.
"Your Grace," Sansa said, her voice low and controlled, trying not to show her nervousness.
Joffrey approached slowly.
"Lady Stark," he replied, bowing in return before taking Sansa's hand and kissing it again, just as he had done earlier in her chambers. He held the touch for a second longer than necessary, his eyes fixed on hers, and Sansa felt a chill run down her spine.
When he finally released her hand, Joffrey watched her intently, his eyes roving over her body, from the dress to the jewelry. A smile curved his lips as he noticed that Sansa had chosen to wear the gifts he had given her.
"I see you continue to wear my jewelry," he said, with an almost malicious satisfaction. Sansa tried not to react but felt her heart race.
He pulled a chair for her at the table and waited for Sansa to sit before taking his own place across from her. Dinner was prepared before them: trout wrapped in bacon, a salad of turnip and fennel, peas with onion, and fresh bread. The aroma was delicious, but Sansa tasted fear in her mouth, preventing her from enjoying any meal that lay before her.
Joffrey began serving her, pouring portions onto her plate with meticulous precision. Sansa thanked him politely, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes. They began to eat in silence, the sound of knives and forks scraping against plates being the only noise in the room.
After a few moments, Joffrey broke the silence.
"My uncle Tyrion has been giving me advice recently," he said casually. "Among other things, he suggested I stop treating my Lady in an undignified manner. This, he said, is not how a king should act.''
Sansa looked at him, surprised by the sincerity that seemed to emanate from his words. Joffrey had never shown any remorse for his cruelties before. What was making him change now? She did not know if she believed him or if she should fear even more what he was planning.
"I intend to change my behavior toward you, Sansa," Joffrey continued, his eyes fixed on hers. "And... I would like to apologize for making you see your father's head."
The words hit Sansa like a punch. The memory of that terrible scene flooded her mind, the image of Eddard Stark's head impaled on the walls of King’s Landing. She swallowed hard, trying to prevent tears from reaching her eyes. She would not cry in front of Joffrey; she would not give him that pleasure.
Joffrey averted his gaze to his own hands, as if he were deeply reflective.
"I was influenced by my advisors," he said, in a tone of lament. "When I asked for Lord Stark's head, I was angry. It was not hard to be persuaded to order his death."
Sansa felt her blood boil beneath her skin. Joffrey's words were full of regret, but something about them did not add up. He had been "influenced"? Perhaps, but how could he explain the cruelty with which, days later, he had shown her her father's head, mocking her pain? That had not been the work of advisors. It was pure malice.
Joffrey seemed to pick up on the thoughts swirling in Sansa's mind, for he quickly added:
"I was hurt when you said you hated me when I came to see you in your chambers. Do you remember? You refused to leave your room, to eat... I let my own anger take over. I made you return to court, made you see your father's head... because I was furious. But now, I see that you had your reasons. Even if Eddard Stark was a traitor."
Sansa felt her face heat up, not from shame, but from the anger boiling inside her. She clenched her hands in her lap, trying to maintain control. Joffrey spoke with a conviction that would make anyone believe he was being sincere, but she knew Joffrey. He knew how to lie well.
Still, his words were far from the Joffrey she knew. He spoke about trying to understand Sansa, about correcting his mistakes, and he said that his uncle Tyrion had made him see how important it was to start the marriage in a more harmonious way.
"It's not good to start a marriage like this, is it?" Joffrey said, with a smile that seemed almost kind. "I will try to get along with you, as my uncle suggested."
Sansa blinked, incredulous. Was she hearing correctly? Joffrey was proposing a truce? What was he planning? Despite her suspicions, a part of her felt relieved. Perhaps this meant the humiliations would stop, at least for a while.
"And, as a sign of goodwill,'' Joffrey continued, as if he were gifting her a rare treasure, "I sent Janos Slynt to the Wall."
Sansa could not hide her surprise. She looked at Joffrey, trying to understand his motivations. Was he doing this for her? Or was there something more?
"A man who betrays his own hand so easily is not trustworthy," Joffrey explained, with a seriousness that seemed rehearsed. "I learned that Slynt was already plotting to kill your father, even though I had not given the order. It was the best decision I could make, influenced by Tyrion, but also... by you. I knew you hated him, so I did that to please you."
Sansa listened to the words, incredulous, yet at the same time, she couldn't stop the relief she felt. Of all the things Joffrey had ever given her, this was by far the best. Slynt banished to the Wall, away from her life forever. Even knowing there was more behind Joffrey's intentions, she couldn't help herself.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, and for the first time in a long time, her gratitude was genuine.
Joffrey's satisfied smile widened as he watched Sansa's gratitude upon hearing about Janos Slynt's fate. It was as if, for the first time, he believed he had done something that truly pleased her, and this seemed to inflate his ego even more. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on hers, his voice soft, almost intimate.
"I want you to know, Sansa," he said, "that I regret killing your father. I know I said I wouldn't, and... it was a stupid decision."
Sansa blinked, her mind immediately on alert. She watched Joffrey carefully, her heart pounding in her chest. Was he apologizing? The same Joffrey who had delighted in showing her Ned Stark's head, impaled on the walls, was now here, sounding remorseful? She could hardly believe it, yet she knew that any false word or visible hesitation could turn the situation on its head in the blink of an eye.
Joffrey continued, as if his confession were a rare gift.
"I apologize for the assaults as well,'' he said, as if trying to show sincerity. "That won't happen again. From now on, you will be treated with the respect you deserve as my betrothed."
Sansa knew he was planning something. There was an intuition, a feeling that those apologies weren't real, but part of some larger game he was orchestrating. But that was a double-edged sword. If Joffrey thought she was foolish enough to believe his apologies, then she would use that to her advantage. This could be the perfect moment to turn the tables.
She took a deep breath, controlling her anger and fear, and then forced a smile. A soft, gentle smile that seemed to come straight from her old self, from the Sansa who once believed in the promises of princes.
"I thank you, My King," she said, keeping her voice low, almost vulnerable. "I am relieved to hear your words."
Joffrey seemed pleased with her response, and when he grasped her hand across the table, Sansa did not pull away. Instead, she did the unexpected. With her other hand, she gently caressed Joffrey's hand, as if to reinforce the connection he seemed to want to create. She saw the glint of triumph in his eyes, as if this small gesture meant he was, indeed, in control.
"I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not," Joffrey said, with a tone of firmness. "I'm a tough man, Sansa. I'm rigid because that's how a king must be."
Sansa immediately thought that he was not just tough or rigid; he was cruel. But she controlled herself and kept the smile on her lips.
"But you won't see that side of me again," he continued, watching Sansa's face as if searching for a reaction that pleased him. "There is no reason for me to be like that with you."
She smiled back, a smile she knew should be charming, and replied with her sweetest voice.
"A King is kind," she said, as if she believed every word. The game was starting to take shape in her mind. If Joffrey believed he could manipulate her with this new face of remorse, she would become the lady he expected — at least on the outside.
Satisfied, Joffrey smiled back, and the two resumed their dinner. The tension in the room seemed to lessen, at least on Joffrey's part. He began talking about his day, about how he had distributed food to the people in the streets, and how his uncle Tyrion had advised various measures to alleviate the city's discontent. Sansa listened to every word, nodding and commenting from time to time, as if she were genuinely interested. She made an effort to appear enchanted by everything he said, even though inside she was calculating every reaction, every smile.
As dinner progressed, the conversation became lighter, almost casual. Sansa, in the role of the attentive fiancée, asked subtle questions, reinforcing the image of someone concerned for the realm and her future king. Joffrey, apparently confident that he was winning her over, continued talking, his voice increasingly relaxed.
When the main courses were finally cleared away, the lemon cakes arrived at the table. Sansa felt a small moment of happiness upon seeing them, one of the only things that truly pleased her that night. She picked up a cake and bit into it delicately, savoring the sweet, citrus flavor she loved so much. Joffrey watched her with a smile on his face.
"I had them prepared especially for you," he said, with a soft laugh.
Sansa looked at him, and for the first time that night, her thanks were sincere.
"Thank you very much, Your Grace. They are perfect."
Joffrey seemed increasingly confident, which, for Sansa, was a good sign. The more he believed he was in control, the more she could use that to her advantage. If Joffrey planned to deceive her, she would do the same. Her lies would be sweeter, her smiles brighter. Little by little, she would become the lovesick fool he wanted her to be, and thus, play the same game he was. After all, this was a game for two, and Sansa Stark was willing to play.
She picked up another cake and bit into it with more enjoyment as Joffrey laughed, satisfied with the effect he thought he was having. He was trusting her, relaxing before her feigned sweetness, and Sansa was grateful internally. This would give her more freedom, more space to breathe.
As they finished dinner, Sansa looked at Joffrey, noticing how proud he seemed of himself, thinking he was winning her over. Inside, she promised herself that she would do whatever it took to survive and, perhaps, one day, to win.
Notes:
Some points that I think might confuse those who haven't read the books:
1. Janos Slynt. He is the one holding Ned Stark's head when Joffrey orders his execution, without expecting anyone to intervene. As a reward, he is made Lord of Harrenhal.
2. Yes, believe it or not, Joffrey is very tall and handsome in the books; Tyrion even mentions in the chapter of his wedding to Margaery that even at the age of 13, he was almost as tall as Jaime (who is quite tall). Examples of mentions of Joffrey in the first book:
''Ned knew many of the knights. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there was Sandor Clegane with his terribly burned face. The tall, strong boy beside him could only be the heir prince, and that stunted little man beside him was certainly the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.'' - Eddard, I.
''Sansa, two years older, was pulling the royal prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve years old, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either of them, to his great frustration. Prince Joffrey had his sister's hair and their mother's deep green eyes. A thick mass of golden curls fell below his golden collar and the high velvet collar.'' - Jon, I.
If there are any more questions, feel free to leave them in the comments. 🥰
Chapter 3: Caresses of Distrust
Summary:
"Because, stupid girl" he said, his voice laden with contempt "I prefer dogs. Dogs don’t lie. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not. A knight? A knight is just a liar with a sword and a title. They talk of honor and glory, but when they take off the armor, they’re just like any other worm. Knights are hypocrites, all of them. But dogs… they’re loyal. And I’d rather have the truth of a dog than any golden lie from a knight’s mouth. My family" he continued without looking at her "was nothing before the Lannisters raised us up. Dog hunters. That’s my legacy. I’m not like them — the knights you so admire."
Notes:
Hello everyone, how are you? As promised, here's the new chapter on this rainy Wednesday night (at least where I live 😅).
Before you dive into the chapter, I'd like to thank you for the comments and kudos. I know stories focused on Joffrey/Sansa don't usually gain much traction here, and I'm honestly surprised by the response to this one. So, my most sincere THANK YOU! ❤️❤️❤️
Now, enjoy the read!
Chapter Text
Tyrion
Tyrion reached Pycelle's chamber with short, firm steps, his heavy wool cloak still snug over his shoulders to shield him from the morning's chill. Darkness persisted like a veil, concealing the first signs of a new day. The sky, painted a deep gray, seemed to withhold light, delaying the dawn over King's Landing. Upon entering, he noticed that the Grand Maester was already up, his shoulders hunched, and his long white beard disheveled. Pycelle stood near a small wooden table covered by a simple cloth, while a young maid, with careful hands and silent steps, laid out breakfast before them.
"Good morning, Lord Tyrion" Pycelle greeted, his voice laden with exhaustion, though he tried to mask the evident fatigue. "I prefer to be on my feet even while the world is still in darkness rather than lying restless under the weight of responsibilities."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. The Grand Maester seemed even more stooped than usual, his eyes half-closed as if insomnia had robbed him of all vitality. His pale, time-marked skin appeared taut, as though tension and sleepless nights were carving every line on his face.
"Ah, how we all suffer under the burden of power, don't we?" Tyrion remarked, his tone laced with sarcasm. "But at least you have the virtue of frugality, Grand Maester. Boiled eggs, stewed plums, and oatmeal porridge. A feast fit for a realm in abundance."
Pycelle let out a soft sigh, a faint hint of embarrassment crossing his tired features.
"Frugality is a necessity in times of famine, my lord. The realm is struggling... we must save wherever we can."
Tyrion made a slight gesture with his hand, indicating he agreed, albeit reluctantly.
"Frugality, indeed. Though I prefer to eat while there's still food on the table. Tomorrow, there might not be any." He took a silver spoon and dipped it into the porridge, tasting a small amount. His expression was one of restrained disdain, but he maintained enough politeness not to openly show his dislike for the Spartan meal.
As he savored breakfast with as much enthusiasm as he would a lump of coal, Tyrion watched Pycelle with eagle eyes, analyzing every trace of the figure before him. The old Maester mumbled excuses and justifications for the modest feast, but Tyrion had other matters on his mind.
"By the way, Grand Maester" Tyrion began, changing his tone to something more serious yet keeping the lightness that always adorned his words. "I need you to send two copies of a letter to Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne. By ravens. The urgency is paramount. The content is... confidential, as usual."
Pycelle looked at him, clearly curious, but restrained himself, limiting to a nod. His hand trembled slightly as he took the parchment and began drafting the first of the letters Tyrion had requested. Tyrion watched, feigning indifference, while he chewed the oatmeal with growing disinterest.
"I know age makes us slower" Tyrion teased with a half-smile. "But I'm sure your skills with the quill are still sharp. Send these letters immediately, even before we finish this… wonderful banquet."
Pycelle looked at the dwarf with heavy eyes but nodded obediently. He summoned one of the acolytes at his disposal and handed over the letters, giving clear instructions for them to be sent without delay.
When the Maester returned to the table, Tyrion took a moment to observe the room around him. The shelves surrounding the chamber were crammed with bottles and jars, all labeled in ancient languages that Tyrion, with his sharp mind, recognized as potions and poisons. He rose leisurely, feigning casual interest as he explored the collection of substances. His eyes fell upon a small vial that immediately caught his attention: a colorless, viscous substance encased in fine glass. Tyrion smiled to himself and, with dexterity, concealed the small bottle in his sleeve.
When Pycelle returned to the table, Tyrion was already back in his chair, his expression placid as if nothing had happened.
"The letters have been sent, Lord Tyrion" Pycelle said with a dragged voice. "I hope your diplomatic mission is successful. I am always at the kingdom’s disposal."
"I’m sure you are" Tyrion replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He toyed with the spoon between his fingers, but the seriousness in his voice was unmistakable. "Now, about the content of the letters… do not worry about the details, Maester. Leave the heavier burdens to those who know how to bear them."
Pycelle remained silent, visibly frustrated by not obtaining more information. However, he knew well the game Tyrion played. Despite his weariness and the deep wrinkles that marked his face, he was not foolish enough to press the matter. The silence that followed was filled only with the muffled sound of cutlery scraping plates and the soft noise of the maid moving around the room.
After a few moments, Pycelle cleared his throat, attempting to resume the conversation, this time in a milder tone.
"The Queen Regent, Cersei, is a very unusual woman" he commented with a significant look. "A lady of great… strength and wisdom. The realm is fortunate to have her at the helm of its most delicate decisions."
Tyrion let out a short, sharp laugh full of thinly veiled scorn.
"Strength and wisdom?" He smiled, tossing the words like one throws dice on a table. "That depends on how you define wisdom. Manipulation, perhaps? Or a talent for hiding claws under silk gloves?"
Pycelle shrank a little under Tyrion's sharp gaze, but tried to maintain his composure. Tyrion knew that the Grand Maester was loyal to Cersei, or at least pretended to be, just as he did with anyone in power. Pycelle’s loyalty was like that of an old dog: he would serve whoever gave him shelter and food but would not hesitate to bite if he felt the need.
"The Queen Regent is... resilient" Pycelle said, avoiding Tyrion's penetrating gaze. "We all do what we can to ensure the realm remains strong."
Tyrion rested his chin on his hands, his eyes glinting with malice.
"Yes, we all do what we can. And sometimes that means taking steps others would not understand."
The room’s atmosphere seemed to cool with Tyrion’s words, and Pycelle, sensing he was treading on dangerous ground, simply nodded silently.
Later, Tyrion closed the door behind him, the soft sound of the latch reverberating through the empty corridors. He took a deep breath, savoring the morning's coolness that began to illuminate the windows. The meeting with Pycelle had been more tiring than expected, but not for the usual reasons. The old Maester always seemed ready to flatter and conspire, moving with the slowness of age, yet there was something deceitful about his apparent submission. Tyrion knew that the letters to Dorne had been sent, but part of him doubted how long it would take for Pycelle to spread rumors and insinuations throughout the castle. The Grand Maester was a useful tool, yes, but like any other tool in King's Landing, dangerous if mishandled.
As he advanced down the corridor, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound: muffled laughter and feminine whispers. The maids, always attracted by royal presence, gathered in small groups to watch. Tyrion raised an eyebrow, expecting to see Joffrey courting them, throwing arrogant looks or making some vulgar comment as was his habit. But to his surprise, the young king stood still, his eyes fixed on the training yard below.
"Strange" Tyrion murmured to himself.
Joffrey, contrary to his expectations, did not seem interested in the pretty maids who laughed and whispered as he passed. He completely ignored the female attention, which was an unusual, even alarming, behavior for a boy who loved to be the center of attention. Something else had captured the king's interest.
Tyrion approached slowly, trying to discern what his nephew was focused on. Joffrey stood by a balustrade, watching intently the knights training in the castle yard. The sounds of clashing swords and shouted commands filled the morning air. One knight, in particular, seemed to attract his attention.
"Tallad the Tall" Joffrey commented with a coldness that contrasted with his usual impetuousness. "A good knight. Strong, fast. But predictable."
Tyrion stopped beside him, raising his eyes to observe the knight Joffrey mentioned. Tallad was indeed imposing, and his skill with a sword was evident.
"Predictable?" Tyrion repeated, tilting his head. "And what makes Tallad predictable, my king?"
"He always takes the same step after a feint to the left" Joffrey replied, his voice laden with disdain. "Every knight has their patterns. Just watch them closely."
Tyrion studied Joffrey for a moment. There was something different about the boy, a concentration he rarely displayed. Perhaps the proximity of conflict was beginning to penetrate the king's thick skull. Or perhaps it was something else.
"An astute observation" said Tyrion, choosing his words carefully. "Though sometimes the predictable is underestimated. After all, who could predict that Tallad the predictable would win so many tournaments"
Joffrey ignored the comment and kept his eyes fixed on the knight. Tyrion let out a sigh. Talking to the king was like trying to tame a wildcat: dangerous, unpredictable, and invariably frustrating.
"And what about today's petitioners?" Tyrion asked, changing the subject.
Joffrey snorted, visibly annoyed by the mention of royal duties.
"Thirty-something" he said with disdain. "All wanting something I have no patience to hear. Lady Tanda keeps pushing her stupid daughter, Lollys, as a possible wife for you." Joffrey laughed a bitter, sarcastic laugh.
Tyrion rolled his eyes. The thought of Lollys Stokeworth as a bride was a nuisance he had no interest in exploring. He knew well that Tanda was desperate to marry off her daughter, and as always, Tyrion was seen as an easy solution. He hated being a pawn in the desperate matrimonial intrigues of nobles.
"Lollys, my lovely, brainless suitor" Tyrion murmured with irony. "Perhaps I should accept her just to see her expression when she wakes up beside me."
Joffrey laughed again, but the sound was empty, forced. Tyrion noticed his nephew's discomfort. Apparently, the routine of dealing with petitioners and requests irritated the young king more than he let on. There was more to that irritation than mere boredom.
"A Braavosi moneylender wants to collect a loan the Crown took" Joffrey continued, his voice taking on an even more annoyed tone. "And there's a river lord complaining that his father’s men looted his lands."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. Loans from Braavos were always a delicate matter, especially when the throne was already mired in debt. As for the river lord, complaints about raids were almost a constant in the war-ravaged lands.
"And what else?" Tyrion asked.
Joffrey frowned.
"The bakers, the butchers, the vegetable sellers... all are complaining. A baker was killed for charging too much for bread, and now they want justice."
Tyrion felt the weight of the hunger afflicting the city. He knew that the food shortage was a growing, dangerous problem, one that, if mishandled, could lead to revolt. But what Joffrey said next made his blood run cold.
"I would like to throw the people who killed the baker into an oven" Joffrey said, his voice cold and cruel. "That would be justice."
Tyrion fell silent for a moment, absorbing the brutality of the king's words. He knew Joffrey had violent tendencies, but it was always a shock to hear such cruelty expressed so casually. The problem was that while hunger was real, violence as a response would only exacerbate the situation.
"Perhaps we should be careful in dealing with the people's hunger, Joffrey" said Tyrion, trying to keep his voice calm. "Excessively severe punishments can incite more revolt."
Joffrey shot him an irritated look but said nothing. Tyrion knew he was not convinced.
"And Ser Alliser Thorne has arrived from the Wall" Joffrey added, changing the subject. "He brought a rotting hand as proof of some supernatural threat."
Tyrion almost laughed but held back. "Let him wait. There are other priorities."
"Wait?" Joffrey asked, annoyed. "For how long?"
"Long enough" replied Tyrion with an ironic smile. "We have plenty of monsters here to deal with before thinking of those beyond the Wall."
Joffrey huffed impatiently.
"We should meet later to discuss these issues" said Tyrion, trying to maintain a light but practical tone. Joffrey, however, frowned, visibly annoyed.
"Will it take long?" asked the king impatiently. "I intend to see Sansa."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow suggestively, but before he could say anything, Joffrey interrupted him irritably.
"I’m just doing what you told me to do" retorted the young king with a cold, defensive tone. Tyrion noted, however, that Joffrey was anxious, restless, as if there was something more behind his desire to see Sansa.
It was true that lately, he had seen Joffrey and Sansa together much more frequently, and the king's behavior seemed impeccable, almost like that of a perfect gentleman. Joffrey was lying well, lying too well, which worried Tyrion. He hoped it wasn’t Sansa who was managing to bend his nephew rather than the other way around.
"There are more complaints to hear in the Throne Room" said Joffrey, dismissing Tyrion with evident annoyance before leaving in a hurry.
With a sigh, Tyrion turned to continue on his way, only to find his sister Cersei mounted on a horse, surrounded by her retinue. She looked worried, her face marked by a tension he knew well.
"Renly is marching" said Cersei bluntly. "And you think we can wait? My father must bring the army now."
Tyrion smiled cynically.
"Renly is still far, Cersei. There’s no need to rush. Let our enemies wear each other down."
Cersei shot him a look of pure disdain.
"You’re not Jaime and you never will be" she said, her voice full of venom. "At least Jaime would know what to do."
Tyrion felt the old wound reopen. But he only inclined his head, keeping the smile on his face.
"Still, I’m the one here" he replied softly. "And not Jaime."
Cersei huffed and turned her horse, leaving without looking back.
Tyrion stood there in the castle courtyard, watching Cersei ride away. He sighed and prepared to return to his quarters.
Tyrion climbed the stairs to his chambers, the day's weight beginning to manifest on his shoulders. The corridor's silence was a brief relief, a pause between one battle and another in the trenches of the Seven Kingdoms' politics. But he soon realized this relief would be brief. Upon opening the door, he found Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, casually seated in one of the carved wooden chairs near the window as if he were in his own home. Tyrion showed no surprise. In King's Landing, especially within the Red Keep, it was impossible to remain alone for long.
"Ah, Lord Tyrion" Littlefinger smiled that easy, dangerous smile that Tyrion had learned to hate. "I fear your quarters are more inviting than mine. I hope you don’t mind my unexpected visit."
Tyrion crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly.
"A man in your circumstances is never unexpected, Lord Baelish." The reply came with a thin layer of sarcasm. "The question is: should I be happy to see you?"
Littlefinger gave a light laugh, shifting in his chair, the sound of his clothes whispering through the air. He leaned forward, his hands clasped in his lap, his fingers thin like those of a seasoned scribe.
"Depends on how you see the situation. I always try to see the opportunities, and I believe we are men who can find solutions to problems, aren’t we?" He looked with more intensity as if wanting to gauge every move of Tyrion.
Tyrion shrugged as he walked across the room toward the table, searching for the wine jug that was always waiting.
"Opportunities. Yes, it seems that little hares have been conquering castles lately" said Tyrion, glancing sidelong at the other man.
Littlefinger chuckled, a soft sound but no less full of ulterior motives.
"Hares can be quick and clever, Lord Tyrion. In times of war, underestimating a hare is soon regretted." His eyes glinted for a moment. "And it seems our young king is no longer as interested in hunting these hares. Perhaps he has found a more worthy prey, something more... devious than usual."
Tyrion frowned but hid the reaction behind a sip of wine. Joffrey and Sansa. As always, Littlefinger picked up more than he should. His perception made him both a useful ally and a potentially lethal enemy. Tyrion kept silent, avoiding confirming any insinuation.
"And what about you, Lord Baelish?" Tyrion asked, placing the glass on the table with more force than he intended. "I see you continue to prosper. Some say you now control the kingdom's treasury more than I control the Hand’s chair."
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, feigning humility.
"The kingdom needs gold, and gold needs me to grow, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, my lord. The treasury is safe, safer than it has ever been."
Tyrion sat in the chair opposite Baelish, staring at him with a scrutinizing look. His discomfort about Petyr's growing power was justified. He was a man who had no armies, lands, or vast titles, yet his control over the kingdom's administration grew stronger each day. Tyrion knew that men like Littlefinger were dangerous, not for their brute strength, but for the web of intrigues and favors they wove around themselves.
He kept a cynical smile on his face.
"Men like you, Petyr, are the most fascinating. No swords, no castles, and yet you control more than most warlords." Tyrion took another sip of wine, leaving the accusation implicit in the air.
Littlefinger only smiled, denying nothing.
"Oh, I am nothing without the Crown’s trust in me, Lord Tyrion." He smoothed the fine fabric of his tunic. "And about trust, I must say that some matters of the realm seem to need our joint attention."
Tyrion knew where this conversation was going. He himself needed Littlefinger, though he despised the idea. The gears of politics were always in motion, and sometimes it was necessary to deal with men of dubious character to get what one wanted.
"Let’s save the courtesies. You know why we’re here, Petyr. The Vale. Lysa Arryn." Tyrion leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "We know she has kept her forces isolated, but the realm needs the Vale’s loyalty. Joffrey needs it. I need it. And you, my dear Littlefinger, can help me get it."
Littlefinger nodded as if thinking deeply, but Tyrion knew he had already calculated all his moves.
"Lysa..." began Littlefinger, his voice laden with disdain. "She wouldn’t send a single man to fight alongside Joffrey, at least not against the Tullys. Her sister has always been... stubborn. And isolated in the Eyrie, she feels untouchable."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
"That can change." He paused. "I could offer something tempting. Justice for Jon Arryn’s death. And perhaps a union. Robert Arryn is still young, and we have a young princess. Myrcella."
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, considering the proposal. The promise of a matrimonial alliance had always been valuable currency in the games of power, and Tyrion knew it. However, Petyr was hard to read, even for someone as astute as him.
"An interesting offer" Petyr said slowly. "But Lysa... She is distrustful. And of course, there’s still the matter of power in the Riverlands."
Tyrion smiled.
"Ah, yes, the Riverlands. Harrenhal, to be exact. We know the castle is a ruin, but the lands are rich. If I promise you Harrenhal, could we make this deal work?"
For a brief moment, Petyr Baelish let his mask slip. His eyes sparkled with ambition, but he quickly regained his calm and cynical posture.
"Harrenhal..." he murmured thoughtfully. "A place with such a rich history of betrayal. Janos Slynt must be gnashing his teeth in envy at the Wall."
Tyrion couldn’t help but smile.
"Slynt no longer serves our purposes. And I prefer to see you, Petyr, in command of those lands. You’ve always been more useful."
Littlefinger leaned a little further in his chair, now clearly interested.
"Perhaps we can reach an agreement, Lord Tyrion. After all, one hand washes the other, doesn’t it?"
Tyrion kept his satisfied smile, pleased with Baelish’s implied acceptance. The play was made, and for now, Petyr would be his ally. That was enough.
With Littlefinger’s departure, Tyrion let out a heavy sigh. He knew Baelish’s maneuvers were dangerous, and the man’s meteoric rise was a constant warning. Jon Arryn might have trusted him with the realm’s finances, but Tyrion recognized that Petyr now controlled more than just coins. He had men in important positions, and control over the royal treasury gave him alarming power.
Before he could sink further into his thoughts, Tyrion heard a soft knock on the door.
"Come in, Varys. I was expecting you." He announced without needing to look. The smell of incense and the subtle rustle of silk clothes had already given away the presence of the Master of Whisperers.
Varys entered, a slight, enigmatic smile on his face.
"Ah, Lord Tyrion, always so perceptive." Varys walked over to the fireplace, drawing close to the warmth. "I hope the day has been... productive."
"Productive enough to give me a headache." Tyrion replied frankly. "Let’s get to the point, Varys. We need to talk about Doran Martell."
Varys nodded, assuming a more serious expression.
"Yes, Doran Martell. A reserved but very dangerous man. He has yet to declare support for Renly or Stannis, but his intentions remain uncertain." Varys tilted his head slightly. "And what exactly do you plan for him?"
Tyrion thought for a moment, carefully choosing his words.
"I want to ensure that Dorne stays out of the war. I will offer him a position on the small council and the promise of vengeance for the death of his sister, Elia. Gregor Clegane may have been the hand that killed her, but we know the true culprit still lurks in the shadows."
Varys nodded, pensive.
"Vengeance... it’s a powerful incentive, but do you really think Doran will be satisfied with just Clegane? He might want more. He might want... Tywin Lannister." Varys’s tone was thoughtful, but his words were a clear reminder of the dangers of meddling with Dorne.
Tyrion frowned. He knew his family was neck-deep in the hatred that Dorne harbored, but he needed to be practical. Martell had a difficult choice to make: stay neutral or pick a side.
"I am also willing to send Myrcella to Dorne as a gesture of goodwill. She could be betrothed to young Trystane Martell. A diplomatic move... and a gesture of trust." Tyrion added, his eyes fixed on Varys.
Varys raised an eyebrow.
"Sending Myrcella to Dorne? A bold but dangerous move. Cersei would never agree if she knew."
Tyrion let out a short laugh.
"Cersei will know in due time when the plan is already in motion. Until then, I need you to keep this a secret. I am surrounded by enemies, Varys. I cannot afford mistakes. And I told Littlefinger that I would consider marrying Myrcella to the sickly Robert Arryn, which I don’t intend to."
Varys bowed his head with a slight reverence.
"As you wish, my lord." He said, a mysterious smile forming on his lips. "Just beware of snakes. They strike when least expected."
***
Sansa
Sansa Stark sat at the edge of her bed, her pale and delicate fingers clutching the crumpled note she had found under her pillow. The thin, shaky handwriting flickered before her eyes like a whisper of wind, the message simple but laden with a terrifying weight: "Come to the godswood tonight if you want to go home." Her hands trembled slightly as she slid the paper between her fingers, her heart beating fast against her chest as if it too sought to escape its gilded cage.
At first, the idea of home seemed like a distant dream, a faded memory from a time when she was just an innocent girl clinging to her fantasies of castles, knights, and heroines. But here, within the cold and treacherous walls of the Red Keep, reality was much darker. "Go home," the note said, and what had once sounded like a sweet promise now echoed in her mind with the menacing undertone of a trap. Who would have sent such a message? Could it be a loyal knight come to rescue her from Joffrey’s clutches? Or, more cruelly, could it be Joffrey himself playing a new game with her life, luring her out only to expose her as a disgraced traitor before the entire court?
Sansa pressed her lips together, biting them as she thought. In recent days, Joffrey had shown himself to be almost courteous in their interactions, with kind words that did little to mask his true nature. She knew he enjoyed toying with her emotions, watching her vacillate between fear and hope. Perhaps that's it, she thought bitterly. A new trap, like so many before. But the note… it didn’t bear the king’s signature or the biting sarcasm to which Sansa had grown so accustomed. No, it was different. The writing was hurried, almost desperate, as if whoever wrote it didn’t want to be seen.
What if it was true? What if there was someone willing to help her? But who? Sansa’s mind quickly ran through all the faces she knew, searching for the traitor or savior behind those words. Could it be Ser Dontos Hollard? The drunken knight Joffrey had turned into a court fool? He always showed gratitude for her having saved him from a humiliating death. But no… he was a fool, nothing but a broken man drowned in drink and fear. And what would he gain from helping her? Perhaps it was someone higher in the court. Tyrion Lannister? The dwarf showed a certain sympathy for her, a strange kindness that seemed more calculated than genuine, but even so, she didn’t fully trust him. Trust, Sansa thought, is a very dangerous currency to spend in King’s Landing.
As she pondered, her suspicion grew. Not only regarding the note but toward everyone around her. The maid who had just lit the fire in the room seemed to be lingering too long, her hands hesitant as she arranged the ashes. Sansa watched every movement of the woman, every furtive glance she cast towards the door. Was she there to spy on her? Queen Cersei constantly changed the maids in her room, ensuring Sansa never bonded with anyone. Was this one under the Queen’s orders too? Or Varys', the Master of Whisperers, whose spies crawled everywhere like invisible shadows?
When the maid left, Sansa barely breathed until she heard the muffled sound of the door closing. Without wasting time, she threw the note into the fire, watching as the flames consumed the paper until it crumbled into black ashes. But the message, like a specter, lingered in her mind. Tonight in the godswood.
What should she do? Sansa’s mind spun in circles, anxiety growing with each thought. Tell the King? She could seek out Joffrey, hand him the note, and demonstrate her loyalty, but something inside her hesitated. What if it was a trap? Joffrey had mistreated her so many times, and her trust in him was as thin as ice on the Winterfell lake. No, she knew that any mistake could cost her life. Or worse… she had seen what happened to those who dared to betray the King.
The distant sound of commotion brought her back to reality. She rose quickly and went to the window. Outside, she saw the drawbridge lowering, guards running in all directions. Something was happening, something that created a distraction. Her heart leapt in her chest. Could this be the moment?
Before she could think twice, Sansa grabbed a knife hidden under the mattress. The blade was small but sharp enough to buy her some time in an emergency. She wrapped herself in a heavy cloak and, with quick and cautious steps, slipped from her quarters, following the dark corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast.
She moved like a shadow, alert to every sound, each step echoing off the stone walls. As she descended the stairs toward the courtyard, her heart nearly stopped when she spotted Joffrey in the distance, clad in his armor, barking orders at the soldiers bustling around him. Fear pulsed through her veins. If he saw her now, her entire escape attempt would be ruined. Sansa held her breath, sinking into the shadows as the King passed, oblivious to her presence. When he was gone, the tension left her body in a heavy sigh, and she hurried on.
Finally, she reached the godswood. The ancient, dark trees surrounded her like slumbering giants, their leaves whispering secrets to the night wind. She walked towards the heart of the grove, where the face carved into the weirwood seemed to watch her with red, unyielding eyes. There, amid the silence and cold, she saw a figure waiting for her.
Ser Dontos Hollard. The drunken, disgraced knight. He was kneeling, his clothes disheveled, and his breath heavy with wine. When he saw her, he staggered to his feet, attempting a clumsy bow.
"My lady, my sweet lady…" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I came… I came to be your Florian."
Sansa, stunned, felt a wave of disappointment and fear wash over her. Was this the man who promised to free her? This fool with a red face and drunken eyes? The disillusionment was swift, but desperation spoke louder.
She gripped the knife more tightly, taking a step forward.
"How can I trust you, Ser Dontos?" she asked, her voice low and laden with doubt.
Dontos shook his head urgently, his words tumbling out quickly.
"For you, my lady… you saved me. Gave me my life back. Now I will save yours. I swear…"
Sansa kept her eyes fixed on Ser Dontos, her mind torn between disbelief and the desperate need to believe in any chance of escape. The blade in her hand trembled slightly as she studied the man before her. He looked pathetic, his clothes rumpled and the smell of wine clinging to the air. This man was nothing like the knights in the songs she used to admire, nothing like Florian, the hero who saved his beloved Jonquil. Yet his words carried a painful sincerity, a devotion that, even drunken, could not be ignored.
"You’re drunk" Sansa said, her voice low, almost a whisper cutting through the cold air of the godswood. It was not a question but a statement.
Dontos shook his head, swaying slightly as he did so.
"A little wine to calm the nerves, my lady… it’s dangerous for me too, you know. They’re all watching us. They… they watch me just as they watch you. But I’m here for you. By the Seven, I swear, by all that is sacred… I will do whatever it takes to get you out of here."
The pathetic sincerity in his words caused Sansa to relax her stance, but she didn’t lower the knife. Her heart still pounded in her chest, her mind spinning, trying to make sense of the surreal situation. She had dreamed so many times of the day someone would rescue her. Someone strong, fearless, someone who would take her back to Winterfell, to home. But now, the only person offering help was this wretched knight, a man who could barely stand.
"And how exactly do you plan to get me out of here, Ser Dontos?" The question came out more bitterly than she intended. She was frustrated, disillusioned, and her voice betrayed her growing sense of defeat.
Dontos hesitated for a moment, scratching his head with a trembling hand, his eyes searching the shadows around them for answers.
"It won’t be easy, my lady" he began, his voice nervous and faltering. "There are… there are spies everywhere. The Queen, Varys… they have eyes in every corridor, every room. We can’t just run through the gates. I need… I need time. I need to figure out a way. But I swear I will do it, my lady. I will get you out of here, take you home. Just… just give me a few days."
Sansa felt a mix of relief and frustration. Part of her wanted to believe him, to cling to the promise of an imminent escape. But she also knew that days could turn into weeks, and weeks into months, as the cruel reality of her situation dragged on endlessly.
"A few days?" she repeated, almost incredulously. "I can’t wait much longer, Dontos. I… I can’t take this anymore. Joffrey… he has changed, but I know this won’t last. He’ll hurt me again as soon as he tires of this… game. And you ask me for patience?"
Dontos raised his hands, pleading with red and tear-filled eyes.
"Please, my lady. I understand. I know how hard it must be… but I’m watched too. They know I’m grateful to you, and if I act without caution, we’ll both be caught. But… I already have a plan. There are ships in the harbor. Ships ready to sail at any moment. I just need to make sure we can reach them without raising suspicion."
Sansa wanted to believe him, wanted to let herself be carried away by the hope that the promise of freedom was not just a cruel illusion. She lowered the knife, not because she fully trusted Dontos, but because she was tired, tired of fighting alone, tired of being a prisoner of her own emotions.
"And how will we communicate?" she finally asked, her tone calmer but still wary. "We can’t keep meeting like this… there are too many spies."
Dontos, still nervous, nodded quickly.
"The godswood… only here, my lady. It’s the only place where their eyes can’t follow us. Here, among the trees, you can speak freely. But anywhere else… you must pretend, you must continue as before. As if nothing is happening. They’re watching. Always."
Sansa knew that was true. She felt the eyes on her neck with every step she took through the corridors of the Red Keep. The constantly changing maids, the furtive glances from the guards, even the servants at the banquets. All seemed to know something she did not, and it terrified her.
For a moment, the weight of it all crushed her. She, the daughter of Eddard Stark, born in Winterfell, now reduced to a pawn in a cruel game, dependent on a disgraced knight for her only hope of escape. It was all so unfair, so cruel, and she felt the bitterness rise like bile in her throat. But there was no other option. She had to try.
"Very well" she said, her voice firm despite the inner turmoil. "I’ll do as you ask. But don’t make me wait long, Dontos. I don’t know how much longer I can endure."
Dontos, visibly relieved, let out a long sigh and tried to smile. He looked like a child happy to have gained an adult’s approval.
"You have my word, my lady." He knelt again, this time with more balance, though still clumsily. "I will be your Florian. I swear by the Seven."
Sansa watched that gesture, and something inside her broke and rebuilt itself at the same time. She knew he was not Florian, knew he was not the hero of her songs. But for now, he was all she had. And that would have to be enough.
Leaning slightly, more a reflex than a conscious decision, Sansa lightly touched Dontos’s face with her fingertips, her lips brushing his rough, alcohol-flushed cheek.
"Thank you, my Florian" she whispered, hardly believing the words coming out of her mouth.
With that, she stood, pulled her cloak around herself, and without another word, began to walk back through the godswood, her heart racing but with a new flame of hope burning in her chest.
Sansa emerged from the godswood with her heart still racing, each step reverberating in her mind. The trees, with their carved faces and watchful eyes, now seemed like silent witnesses to a secret that consumed her. Dontos had kindled a spark of hope but also a shadow of uncertainty. She knew she wasn’t safe— the Red Keep was no place for secrets. Each corridor could hide an enemy, and the night, with its deep shadows, made everything even more menacing.
She clutched the cloak around her, feeling the cold night air on her skin, and began to run towards the fortress. Her steps echoed on the stone floor as she climbed the stairs, desperate to return before anyone noticed her absence. She didn’t dare look back, as if the very walls might be watching.
However, as she rounded a corner sharply, something solid and unexpected blocked her path. The impact caused her to lose her balance, and Sansa felt the ground approaching quickly, but before she could fall, a strong, rough hand caught her by the wrist with a grip that almost made her gasp.
She looked up, frightened, only to meet the horrifying face of Sandor Clegane, the Hound, illuminated by the dim light of the torches hanging on the walls. His scarred, burned face was even more terrifying in the half-light, with dark shadows etching harsher contours into his expression. He stood tall and imposing, like a mountain, and his hand around her wrist felt like an iron claw, rigid and unyielding.
"Ah, the little bird out of the nest" he said, his voice rough and full of scorn. His breath smelled of alcohol, and his eyes, though heavy, were alert, fixed on her. "And what is the little bird doing flying around alone at this hour?"
Sansa tried to compose herself, but the strength with which Sandor held her made her feel even smaller and more vulnerable. Her heart was in her throat, and words failed her. She knew she had to think fast, but his presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating.
"I… I was in the godswood" she stammered, her voice trembling. "Praying…"
"Praying" Sandor repeated with a harsh laugh. He released her wrist abruptly, but his gaze remained fixed on her, assessing her from head to toe. 'Lies, as always. All you noble ladies, always so good at telling stories. But I see beyond the pretty words."
He took a step towards her, and Sansa shrank back, her fingers gripping the fabric of her cloak. There was something menacing in the way he moved, like a predator slowly approaching its prey.
"You’ve grown, little bird" he murmured, his dark eyes sliding from her face down to her body. "Taller, with curves now… And still believing in those silly stories about knights and maidens, aren’t you?"
Sansa felt her face heat with shame and anger. She wanted to respond, to say something that would drive him away, but the truth was that his words hit harder than she would like to admit. Those fantasies of knights and rescues still haunted her, even when she knew with painful certainty that the real world was far crueler.
"No…" she began, but her voice faltered. Before she could finish, Sandor laughed bitterly.
'Of course you do. You and all the other fools in this damn castle. Knights. Honor. Glory. All lies. The only ones who tell the truth are dogs" he spat the last word, the bitterness in his voice as evident as the smell of wine on his breath. "They never lie. They know what they are, know what they want. Unlike these false heroes you dream of meeting."
Sansa bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to surface. She wouldn’t cry in front of him; she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But the way he spoke with such disdain and sarcasm made everything she had believed up to that point fracture a little more.
"I’ll take you back" he said suddenly, his voice cold and commanding. "Before some other idiot notices your absence and thinks to mess with you."
Sandor turned, beginning to walk towards the dark corridors without waiting for her response. She hesitated for a moment, but the fear of being alone in that vast, hostile castle made her follow in his footsteps. He walked with purpose, as if he knew exactly where to go, and she almost had to run to keep up with him.
Sansa felt her steps falter as she followed Sandor Clegane through the maze of corridors in the Red Keep, the shadows swallowing them with every turn. Her mind was still full of his words, like venom seeping into her carefully constructed defenses. The Hound’s eyes, shining under the flickering torchlight, made her feel even smaller and more defenseless. The heavy silence between them was broken only by the rustling of their cloaks against the cold stone floor and Sandor’s occasional grunts, as if her mere presence irritated him.
When they finally reached the gates of Maegor’s Holdfast, Sansa’s heart quickened at the sight of the imposing figure of Ser Boros Blount standing guard. One of the most slovenly and brutal members of the Kingsguard, he was the one she despised most, a coarse man with no honor, unlike the idealized image of knights she had carried in her mind since childhood. Boros’s gaze immediately fell on her, running over her body in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. Sansa felt exposed, vulnerable, and a wave of nausea rose in her throat.
"Don’t worry about him, little bird" Sandor growled, noticing her hesitation. "That one’s nothing but a bloated toad. He won’t harm you… at least as long as I’m here." He cast a cruel look at Boros, who shrank slightly under his imposing presence.
"Clegane" Boros began, with a tone of false authority, trying to hide his discomfort. "I haven’t seen you for hours. Shouldn’t you be guarding the king?"
The question had barely left Boros’s lips when Sandor took a step forward, his eyes burning with disdain.
"I’m no knight, Boros" Sandor replied, his voice as deep as rolling thunder. "And I don’t have to answer to you about where I’ve been or what I’ve done. You should remember that."
Sansa saw Boros’s gaze waver briefly before he straightened his shoulders, trying to maintain a facade of authority. However, Sandor’s presence was impossible to ignore, and the guard soon backed down, letting his discomfort show. It was clear that he didn’t want to confront the Hound.
"What happened with the earlier commotion?" Sandor asked, his voice as cutting as a blade.
Boros, nervous, wiped the sweat from his forehead and grumbled:
"The king… the king led a surprise attack. Things were contained; the crowd dispersed. We were ready to quell any further insurrection, but His Grace was… effective."
Sandor let out a low laugh, a dark, humorless sound.
"Brave lad, eh?" Clegane said, glancing at Sansa, who kept her eyes fixed on the ground.
Though she was reluctant to admit it, Sansa had to acknowledge that Joffrey had been brave. However, she couldn’t help but think of how cowardly Joffrey had reacted so many times. The memories of his attacks on her, the cold stares, and Joffrey’s merciless punishments still weighed on her mind. And now, imagining him leading an attack as if he were some sort of hero seemed like a cruel joke. “I’d like to see all that courage when he faces my brother,” Sansa thought, her thoughts bitter but well-guarded behind an expressionless face.
Boros, however, seemed confused by Sandor’s comment, and instead of responding, his eyes once again ran over Sansa’s body, now lingering on her chest, making her shrink inwardly. The look was grotesque, repulsive, and the mere fact of being there at the mercy of those men amplified her sense of powerlessness.
Before Sansa could avert her gaze, Sandor let out a growl of disgust.
"Turn your eyes away, Blount. She’s not for you" Sandor said, his voice full of venom. "And if you’re any kind of man, go do something useful instead of standing there drooling like an old dog."
Boros shrank again, looking even more miserable, and mumbled something inaudible before turning and walking away, leaving them alone once more. Sansa took a deep breath, relieved, but the discomfort still knotted her stomach.
As they resumed their way through the corridors, the silence between her and Sandor became almost unbearable. Sansa didn’t know whether to feel fear or relief at being under his protection. He was unpredictable, oscillating between brutality and a strange kind of care. Finally, seeking some way to soften the atmosphere, Sansa broke the silence with a question that had long intrigued her.
''Why do you… you never want to be called a knight?" she asked hesitantly.
Sandor turned to her slowly, his dark, scarred features taking on a hard expression, as if the question had deeply bothered him. He let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"Because, stupid girl" he said, his voice laden with contempt "I prefer dogs. Dogs don’t lie. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not. A knight? A knight is just a liar with a sword and a title. They talk of honor and glory, but when they take off the armor, they’re just like any other worm. Knights are hypocrites, all of them. But dogs… they’re loyal. And I’d rather have the truth of a dog than any golden lie from a knight’s mouth. My family" he continued without looking at her "was nothing before the Lannisters raised us up. Dog hunters. That’s my legacy. I’m not like them — the knights you so admire."
He stopped abruptly, leaning over her, and before Sansa could pull away, he grasped her chin firmly, forcing her to look directly at him. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her shiver.
"Look around you, little bird" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Everyone around you lies. Even the knights you admire so much. Don’t fool yourself, girl. There’s no honor in their world, nor in mine. Only blood, steel, and lies."
Sansa tried not to tremble under his touch, but his proximity, the strong smell of wine mixed with sweat, and the way he held her made her feel cornered, trapped. She didn’t know how to respond, but as so often before, she tried to calm the situation, retreating to something she knew how to do
"I… I could sing for you… if you’d like" she offered, her voice almost a whisper.
For a brief moment, something in Sandor’s eyes seemed to change, but he quickly let out a harsh, mocking laugh, releasing her chin with a light, almost scornful push
"Sing? For me?" he spat the word as if it were a joke. "Save your songs, girl. One day, perhaps, I’ll pull a song out of you… whether you want to or not." He let go of her and began to walk again.
Sansa swallowed hard, tasting the bitter flavor of fear in her mouth, but she dared not contest him. The walk to her quarters seemed longer than ever, and when they finally reached the door, Sandor stopped, looking at her for a moment.
"Go to sleep, little bird" he said, his voice lower, almost a rough murmur. "Whatever you dream, remember: dogs don’t lie."
With those words, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridors, leaving Sansa alone in the dim light.
Sansa leaned against the door of her quarters, still feeling the weight of Sandor Clegane, the Hound’s presence. He had left only minutes ago, but the encounter had left her mind in turmoil. His words echoed in her head, especially the coarse and yet unsettling way he had looked at her. It was as if he were trying, in his rough and violent way, to warn her of something greater, something about the world around her. “Dogs don’t lie. But knights, all of them, are liars,” he had said, a harsh truth that hung in the air like a veiled threat.
She sat on the bed, feeling the tension in her muscles and her mind spinning in circles. Sansa wanted to believe there was still a world of honor and justice around her, a place where knights were noble and devoted to the truth. But everything she had experienced since arriving at King’s Landing taught her otherwise. Ser Boros Blount, with his lecherous looks and the contempt she saw in his eyes, was the latest example that reality was very different from the stories she had heard as a child.
The memory of Ser Boros’s dirty look, running over her body like a predator stalking its prey, made Sansa’s stomach churn. She crossed her arms over her chest as if she could protect herself from the discomfort he caused her. There was something profoundly disgusting and dishonorable about the way he looked at her, as if he were examining an object, something that could be used and discarded. She needed to speak about it, but to whom? And more importantly, would Joffrey listen? Would he believe her?
In recent days, Joffrey had changed towards her. He seemed softer in his gestures, more attentive to what she said. He was not the cruel Joffrey who publicly tormented her, or at least not as frequently. There was something different. But still, Sansa knew that trusting him too much would be dangerous. Joffrey could be unpredictable, his temper unstable. He could either punish her or heed her request. If she accused him of ignoring Ser Boros’s behavior, it could backfire, and Sansa feared the consequences.
She began to think about how to word it, how to expose the situation so that Joffrey would feel compelled to act in her favor when the sound of firm knocks on the door interrupted her. Sansa’s heart jumped in her chest.
"His Grace the King" announced a voice on the other side.
Sansa took a deep breath, trying to calm the agitation growing within her. Joffrey entered the room without ceremony, but there was a strange tranquility about his presence. He seemed different from how she remembered him from other times. His face was slightly haggard, and he looked a bit annoyed, though not aggressively so. He walked towards the bed, sitting beside Sansa, his eyes narrowed as he examined the room, as if evaluating every detail.
"I’ve been thinking about you" he said, his voice softer than usual. "Since I returned from the attack at the gate."
Sansa’s surprise was genuine. She always expected some cutting or cruel comment from Joffrey, but his words now carried an unexpectedly sincere tone. She turned to him, maintaining the cautious posture she had learned over time.
"I heard Your Grace led the attack against the rioters" she said, her voice low but controlled. "A very brave act. Are you hurt?"
She expected Joffrey to flare up, to say something like "Of course not, you idiot!" but instead, he shook his head slowly, a trace of exhaustion in his eyes.
"I’m not hurt, just tired" he admitted, which surprised Sansa even more. "I wanted to see you all day. I couldn’t stop thinking about you."
These words caught her off guard. There was sincerity in his voice that she couldn’t reconcile with the Joffrey she knew. Sansa hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. Slowly, carefully, she reached out and touched Joffrey’s hair. The gesture was almost automatic, a reflex of how she used to comfort Robb when he was troubled, but here it was different. She feared Joffrey would react badly, that he would push her away as he had done so many times before. But he didn’t.
On the contrary, Joffrey closed his eyes and sighed softly at her touch, as if he appreciated the affection. This confused her even more. He was so unpredictable, so full of facets that she could never foresee what would come next. Sansa kept her hand in his blonde hair for a while before carefully pulling it back, fearing the moment would pass and Joffrey would return to being the ruthless king he had always been.
After a long silence, Joffrey opened his eyes, and the look he gave her was sharp.
"What were you doing outside the castle today?" he asked, his voice still low but with a new layer of suspicion. "When I returned, I saw you talking to the Hound… and to Ser Boros."
Sansa’s heart raced. She felt the blood drain from her face as she searched for a quick answer. She knew that the slightest hesitation could make him suspicious, but the truth was too delicate to be simply spoken. She tried to stay calm, avoiding looking cornered.
"I went to the godswood, my lord" she said firmly, though her voice trembled slightly. "To pray for your health, as I always do. On the way back, I ran into Ser Boros and Sandor."
Joffrey studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slowly as if trying to discern something in her behavior.
"And why did you seem… strange?" He leaned forward, his voice lower, almost accusatory. "If that’s all it was, why did you look so cornered?"
Sansa felt a knot tighten in her throat. She knew she had to be careful. Ser Boros was a member of the Kingsguard, someone Joffrey trusted. But the way he had looked at her… She could no longer keep it to herself.
"Ser Boros… he…" Her voice faltered for a moment. "He looked at me in a way that… he shouldn’t. Like a woman."
Joffrey froze. Sansa saw fury growing in his eyes, and for a brief second, she thought he would turn his temper on her. He suddenly stood up, his fists clenched at his sides. Fear gripped her. In one of his fits of rage, Joffrey could do anything.
"What?" His voice was low and dangerous. "Repeat what you said."
"Ser Boros looked at me like a man looks at a woman" Sansa repeated, her voice almost fading as the tension in the air increased.
Joffrey looked at her for what seemed like an eternity, his face contorted with rage. Then, abruptly, he turned and marched towards the door.
"I’ll deal with this" he said, the fury evident in every word, before leaving the room.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Sansa felt her legs weaken, and she sank back onto the bed. Panic consumed her thoughts. “Gods, he’s going to question Ser Boros… And of course, Boros will deny everything. He’ll believe Ser Boros, not me. I’m doomed,” she thought, and the tears began to flow from her eyes.
***
Joffrey
Joffrey stormed out of Sansa’s room, his heavy footsteps echoing with the rage that burned like embers in his chest. His hands were clenched into fists, and with each step, it felt like the floor of the Red Keep trembled beneath him. "Who does Boros think he is?" The question echoed in his mind, fueling his fury. The image of Sansa, her words, still danced before his eyes: "He looked at me..." How dare Boros? It was an affront, a personal insult, as if Sansa were not his. As if she belonged to anyone else. The image of Boros looking at Sansa—at what was his—sickened him.
"I’ll gouge that pig’s eyes out with my bare hands," he thought, his face twisted with fury. He felt the hate rise up his spine, boiling in his veins, almost wishing to feel Ser Boros’s blood dripping between his fingers. Joffrey clenched his fists tighter, his nails digging into his own flesh. He pictured the knight begging for his life, crawling as he punished him for the gaze he dared cast upon his future queen. Sansa was his, and Boros dared treat her like any common peasant? This would not go unpunished. The execution would be slow and cruel, Joffrey thought. Boros would feel every second of pain before being sent to hell.
As he strode through the corridors, determined to find Ser Boros and end the insult immediately, something caught his attention. His mother, Cersei, appeared before him, her green eyes narrow and calculating. She was always a shadow of elegance, but Joffrey barely noticed. He didn’t want to talk. Not now. He would push past her and go directly to Boros. But before he could brush past, Cersei placed a firm hand on his arm, holding him back. Her touch stopped him, though he was impatient to deal with what he saw as a personal betrayal.
"Joffrey" Cersei’s voice was gentle, but there was a tone of command he couldn’t refuse. "I was looking for you. I wanted to see how you were after handling the riot at the gates. But I see something else is troubling you. What’s wrong?"
He felt his anger surge again, and unable to contain himself, he burst out:
"Boros looked at Sansa!" The fury throbbed in every word. "She said he looked at her… at her chest. Like a filthy dog. I’m going to execute him for that."
The words left his mouth like lashes, and just saying them intensified his hatred. He needed to do it, to show that no one could look at what was his.
Cersei watched him for a moment, her eyes assessing every detail of his demeanor. Joffrey hated it when his mother did that—when she seemed to study him as if she knew more than he did.
"Joffrey" she began, her voice lower, almost a veiled warning "you can’t just execute Boros like that. He’s a member of the Kingsguard. There is a protocol to follow."
Joffrey’s blood boiled even more. Who did she think she was to tell him what to do? He was the king, not her. She didn’t understand how offensive what Boros had done was. It wasn’t just the look; it was the disrespect. The challenge.
"I don’t care!" he shouted, ignoring any prudence. "He looked at her like a filthy pig! I’ll kill him, Mother, and hang his head at the gates for all to see what happens when they dare touch my queen!"
The thought of Boros being displayed for the world, his head on show, brought a bitter smile to Joffrey’s lips. The anger pulsed in him so strongly that he could barely hear Cersei’s words.
But she didn’t back down. He hated how she always tried to place herself above him as if she knew more, but this time, he sensed the weight of discomfort in her voice.
"And what if Sansa is… exaggerating?" Cersei said carefully. "You need to be certain, Joffrey. Boros has always been rude to her, and you know he treated her harshly when you ordered the girl punished in the past. But to kill a member of the Kingsguard without proof… it will bring problems. Big problems."
Hearing these words stirred something in Joffrey. He didn’t like to remember the times he had ordered Sansa to be punished. Yes, Boros had always gone a bit further than necessary, but he had merely been a soldier following orders. His own orders. The discomfort crept up Joffrey’s spine like a shadow, and he felt the need to justify himself, to shield himself from the guilt Cersei seemed to want to cast upon him.
"I no longer order her to be beaten" Joffrey said, his voice more defensive than he intended. He raised his chin, trying to show himself above that unsettling guilt. "That was a long time ago."
"I know, dear" Cersei replied, maintaining her composure, but with a shrewd look. "But that’s why you need to be careful now. We can’t afford mistakes, not with everything going on. At least find out the truth. Was anyone else with them at the time?"
Joffrey bit his lip, the irritation still vibrating in his mind but now with a direction. Sandor Clegane was loyal, and he had no reason to lie. If there was something he respected about the Hound, it was his brutal honesty. Yes, he would find out the truth. And if Clegane confirmed what Sansa had said… then Boros was as good as dead.
"Very well" Joffrey agreed, though the hatred still burned within him. "I’ll speak with the Hound. He was with them. If it’s true, Boros dies."
With anger still pulsing through his veins like a poison, Joffrey turned abruptly to his mother, signaling that the conversation was over. The decision was already made in his mind. He would find the Hound and get his confirmation. Clegane, with his brutal honesty, would tell the truth, and then Ser Boros would pay for his crime. His death would serve as a warning to all who dared challenge his authority—and what was his.
Cersei, however, didn’t seem entirely satisfied with how the conversation had gone, but she knew her son well enough to realize that further argument would be futile. Together, mother and son walked through the castle’s corridors in search of Sandor Clegane. The night was already well advanced, but that didn’t diminish Joffrey’s resolve. He knew where to find the Hound; Sandor had a habit of drinking heavily during his free hours, especially after a day of battle. The earlier riot, caused by the people's discontent, would certainly have driven Sandor straight to the drink.
The sounds of the Red Keep seemed strangely distant to Joffrey, his mind so focused on finding the guard that he ignored the murmurs of the servants, the clanking of weapons in the training yards, and even the nervous glances that followed them. As they neared the main courtyard, an unmistakable sound reached his ears—the sound of a heated argument. Joffrey narrowed his eyes and quickened his pace, with Cersei following closely behind.
In the center of the courtyard, beside a wooden table with a few scattered tankards of ale, were Sandor Clegane and… Tyrion. The dwarf seemed to be in the middle of a frustrated conversation with the brute, the expressions on their faces revealing a growing tension. Sandor, clearly drunk, was laughing with scorn while Tyrion confronted him, his voice sharp and insistent.
"Where the hell were you while the king dealt with that riot?" Tyrion asked, his voice cutting. "Your job is to protect the king, Clegane, not to drink yourself stupid like a common peasant."
Joffrey paused for a moment, observing the scene, the blood boiling even more when he realized that Clegane had failed in his duty. He had been distracted while Joffrey was at risk. Yet, that wasn’t the reason he had come there. His eyes flashed with rage and impatience, and he stepped forward, interrupting the argument.
"I have more important matters to deal with, Uncle" Joffrey said, his voice sharp, laden with authority. Tyrion turned immediately to his nephew, recognizing the tone of Joffrey and realizing that something serious was afoot. Sandor, for his part, raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
"Clegane, you’re coming with me" Joffrey ordered, not giving time for any protest. He had no patience for pointless arguments, not at that moment. There was a punishment to be meted out, and it couldn’t wait.
Tyrion, with his usual curiosity, made as if to ask what was going on, but Joffrey had already begun walking, expecting Sandor to follow him. Clegane looked at Tyrion with a slight drunken grin and shrugged before following the king. Cersei, always attentive to her son’s movements, kept close. Tyrion hesitated for a moment but couldn’t resist the urge to follow the group. If there was something he hated, it was being kept in the dark about matters involving the kingdom.
The small entourage made their way to the entrance of Maegor’s Holdfast, where Ser Boros Blount was on guard. Joffrey felt his anger rise with each step, increasingly eager to expose Boros's betrayal. He pictured the knight on his knees, begging for mercy, but he knew there would be no mercy. Not in this case.
Upon seeing Ser Boros, Joffrey strode directly towards him, ignoring any formalities. His eyes were dark with fury, and his body seemed to radiate a dangerous energy.
"Ser Boros" he said, his voice low but deadly as he approached. The knight immediately snapped to attention, straightening his posture, though there was a glimmer of fear in his eyes. He clearly felt the tension in the air.
"Your Grace" Ser Boros said, attempting to sound firm, but there was a slight tremor in his voice. Joffrey stared at him for a long moment before finally speaking.
"Do you have something to tell me?"
Ser Boros blinked in confusion, his face paling slightly. He looked around as if hoping to find some explanation in the emptiness but found none.
"No, Your Grace" he replied, uncertainty beginning to take hold. "I have nothing to say."
Joffrey stepped closer, his presence becoming more intimidating, his voice gaining an even more threatening tone.
"Do you know where I’m coming from?"
Ser Boros hesitated, fear growing in his eyes. He shook his head nervously.
"No, Your Grace."
"I’m coming from my lady’s chambers" Joffrey said, his voice as cold as ice. "And she accused you of something very serious… She said you were looking at her body, Ser Boros. Looking at her chest."
At those words, Ser Boros’s face turned completely white. The silence that followed was broken by the sound of a deep, cruel laugh from Sandor Clegane, standing just behind Joffrey.
"The little bird is growing bold" Clegane said between laughs, referring to Sansa. "She gave you away, Boros. Ha! And rightly so, filthy pig."
Sandor’s laughter echoed through the courtyard, but Joffrey was not laughing. He turned his attention back to Boros, his eyes blazing with hatred.
"So it’s true" Joffrey whispered, his voice low and lethal.
Ser Boros took a step back, his hands trembling.
"No… no, Your Grace! I… I swear I didn’t look at her improperly" he stammered, fear evident in his voice. "I… I only…"
But before he could finish, Clegane, still with a cruel smile, interrupted.
"You looked, Boros" said the Hound bluntly. "I saw it. And Sansa wasn’t lying. If you ask any of the guards nearby, they’ll confirm it. I even warned you to look away."
Boros was in complete despair now, his hands trembling as he searched for an excuse, any means to save himself.
"Ask Ser Arys" Clegane suggested with a dry laugh. "He was there too. And he wouldn’t lie to the king."
Joffrey remained silent for a moment, watching Boros. The knight was on the verge of collapse, fear written across every line of his face. Finally, Joffrey spoke, his voice as cold as a blade.
"This is your last chance, Ser Boros. Tell the truth."
Desperate, Ser Boros dropped to his knees, drawing his sword and driving it into the ground before Joffrey.
"Your Grace, I… I did look briefly, yes. But believe me, she is so beautiful… sometimes it’s hard to look away…" His voice was a trembling whisper as he knelt, begging for forgiveness. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I… I meant no disrespect."
Joffrey’s rage reached its peak. His face twisted in pure hatred. With a swift movement, he punched Ser Boros in the face, causing the knight to stagger backward. His ring opened a deep cut on Boros’s cheek, blood streaming down the kneeling man’s face.
"Stand up!" Joffrey roared, his voice trembling with fury. "Clegane, take his sword and throw him in the cells. I’ll execute him by dawn!"
Sandor, with a satisfied grin, promptly obeyed, while Boros muttered useless protests as he was dragged to his final destination.
Joffrey watched with a dark smile. Justice would be served.
Joffrey made his way back down the corridor, his quick, almost hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls of the Red Keep. He didn’t bother to look back as Cersei and Tyrion followed him, their voices blending into an irritating cacophony of disguised advice and orders. He didn’t want to hear anything they had to say. Anger still simmered in his chest, his mind trapped in the earlier moment when Boros Blount had knelt before him, begging for forgiveness.
"Joffrey!" Cersei's sharp voice broke into the corridor, and he barely disguised his eye roll. "You can’t just execute Boros! He’s a loyal guard!"
The word "loyal" made Joffrey’s lips curl in disgust. If loyalty meant devouring Sansa with his eyes, then what a perverse loyalty that was!
He stopped abruptly, pivoting on his heels. His mother’s face was marked with concern, her green eyes shining with something bordering on pleading.
"I don’t care about your loyalty, Mother, if he dared disrespect my betrothed." Joffrey's voice was laced with contempt. "And don’t you dare tell me what I can or cannot do."
"I’m your mother!" Cersei shot back, lifting her chin as if her stature could somehow intimidate him. "And I’m trying to prevent you from making a grave mistake."
"No." Joffrey’s voice was low yet sharp as a blade. "I’m not your son right now. I am your King. And I am ordering you to withdraw. Don’t make me repeat myself."
For a moment, the tension rose between them like a taut string about to snap. Cersei seemed to waver, her eyes shining with a mix of anger and pain. Joffrey knew she was fighting against her pride, against the urge to protect him, but in the end, she merely clenched her fists and took a step back, her lips taut.
"Very well, Your Grace" Cersei said, her voice icy, before pivoting on her heels and walking away, leaving Joffrey and Tyrion alone.
Tyrion let out a sigh, the exasperated sound escaping his lips as he adjusted his cloak.
"It’s a shame to see what the drink has done to the Hound" he said, changing the subject. "But I need to talk about Boros, Joffrey."
"What about him?" Joffrey narrowed his eyes, his mood still dark. He was fed up with being questioned about his decisions.
"I’m not saying you can’t execute him; I’ve never liked Boros particularly. He’s a brute." Tyrion shrugged. "But hasty executions without a hearing… well, let’s just say that raises unnecessary suspicions. The people are already restless, and an execution without trial could ignite even more distrust."
Joffrey clenched his teeth, irritated by the intrusion. He wanted to see Boros bleed, to see the fear in his eyes transform into absolute despair. But deep down, he knew Tyrion was right. He couldn’t act like the impulsive tyrant the people feared—at least, not yet.
"So be it" he said with effort, his voice more controlled. "The hearing will be tomorrow at dawn. I want this resolved quickly."
Tyrion made a short bow, satisfied with the response. But Joffrey wasn’t interested in his uncle’s approval. Without saying anything more, he turned again, quick steps taking him back to Sansa’s quarters.
When he arrived at her door, his heart raced in his chest, a weight he couldn’t fully comprehend. He raised his hand and knocked but didn’t wait for an invitation. He turned the knob and entered the room without ceremony.
Sansa was lying on the bed but quickly sat up upon seeing him enter, her eyes wide with surprise. She was still wearing the dress from moments ago, but her eyes were red, clear evidence that she had been crying.
Joffrey felt an uncomfortable pang in his chest at the sight of her, but the sensation was confusing, mixed with the anger and need for control that always dominated him. He approached slowly, his gaze fixed on her.
"Why were you crying?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, but an unwanted concern tinged his words.
Sansa hesitated, her trembling hand gripping the edge of her dress as she rose. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was choked.
"I… I was afraid" she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I was afraid that Boros would deny what I said… and that you would believe him."
The sincerity in her words made him stop, and for a moment he simply stared at her, unsure of how to react. He wanted to dismiss her; he wanted to be the one controlling her, keeping her under his dominion… but in that instant, seeing the fear in her eyes, something within him faltered.
"He denied it" Joffrey replied, his voice softer than he intended. "But the Hound confirmed it. He said Boros was looking."
He watched Sansa’s shoulders relax, the relief evident on her face. And that, somehow, stirred something in him in a way he wasn’t prepared to handle.
Joffrey took another step closer, closing the distance between them, and lifted his hand to gently hold Sansa’s face. He didn’t know what he was doing; his thoughts were a jumble. His thumb brushed her cheek, and he felt the gentle warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
"Boros will be executed tomorrow" he said, and he saw her eyes widen in surprise. "A hearing in the throne room. I promised I would take care of you, and no one will touch you again. No one will threaten your honor. I am keeping my promise."
Sansa nodded, and for the first time in a long time, Joffrey saw something resembling genuine gratitude in her eyes. And he didn’t understand why that hit him so hard, why that expression of relief and curiosity affected him so deeply.
He moved even closer, almost without realizing what he was doing, the light scent of flowers coming from her, the warmth radiating from her body. His mind was muddled, struggling against a whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t name. He brushed his nose against hers in a light tease, and when Sansa didn’t pull away, he captured her lips in a kiss.
The moment their lips met was for Joffrey as if the entire world around him had vanished. The heavy air of the room seemed to disappear, replaced by an almost suffocating current of desire that he could barely control. The initial confusion was quickly supplanted by something much more intense, a primitive, almost animal need to possess her. Sansa was not just his betrothed; she was his possession, something that belonged to him by right, something no one else could touch or even look at.
The touch of their lips, initially hesitant, soon became firmer, more demanding. Joffrey pressed Sansa against him with growing urgency, his hands sliding from her face to her shoulders and then to her waist. He squeezed the soft flesh of her waist with his fingers, feeling her body’s warmth through the fabric of her dress. There was a dark and overwhelming satisfaction in holding her like this, so vulnerable under his touch, as if every part of Sansa were there, ready to submit to whatever he desired.
As the kiss deepened, Joffrey’s lips moved with a voracity he couldn’t contain. He pulled her closer as if he wanted to devour her, to feel every piece of her at once. The slight initial resistance he perceived in Sansa quickly melted away, as if she too were surrendering to that moment, and that only intensified the feeling of power that burned within him.
Joffrey tasted the sweet flavor of her lips mixed with the slight salty taste of her recent tears, and that inflamed him even more. Knowing she had cried—and because of him—filled him with a sort of twisted pride. He was the cause of her emotions, whether fear, relief, or even gratitude. And now she was there, with her lips parted beneath his, allowing him to draw closer still. That excited him in a way he barely understood.
The kiss became more aggressive, more demanding. Joffrey took Sansa’s lower lip between his teeth, pulling it gently but with a possessiveness that left no doubt about his control over her. He wanted her to know he was in command, that he dictated the pace, and that she had no choice but to follow. When their tongues finally met, a wave of heat coursed through Joffrey’s body, his senses dulled by a desire that bordered on desperation.
Sansa’s hands timidly rose to his hair, her fingers intertwining in his golden locks, and that touch, though hesitant, made something inside Joffrey snap. She was somehow responding. Maybe not with the same intensity, but there was something in her touch that made him want more, that incited him to be even more aggressive. He squeezed her waist tighter, pulling her closer until their bodies were completely pressed together, with no space between them.
Sansa’s head tilted slightly back, allowing Joffrey to deepen the kiss even further. He took advantage of the opening, claiming everything he could from her as if he wanted to mark every part of her body with his presence. The possessive desire grew within him with every second, his thoughts obscured by the need to fully claim her. She was his—his promised, his future queen, his property. And in that moment, nothing seemed more important than ensuring that she knew that.
His fingers slid down to her hips, holding her tightly as if he wanted to mold her against him. He felt Sansa's warmth through the fabric, the lightness of her breath mingling with his, and it left him even more desperate. There was a hunger in Joffrey that he could barely understand, something that went beyond physical desire. It was a longing for total control, to possess not only Sansa’s body but also her mind, her heart, her complete submission.
He broke the kiss for a brief instant, just long enough to study her face. Sansa’s eyes were half-open, her breath quickened, and there was a vulnerability there that only served to stoke the fire within him. Joffrey leaned in again, pressing his lips to hers with renewed ferocity, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in that moment, to forget who he was or what he should be doing. All that mattered was Sansa, there beneath his touch, completely within his reach.
When they finally separated, the air around them felt electrified. Their breaths came in quick gasps, filling the silence of the room, and Joffrey kept his forehead pressed against hers for a long moment, trying to regain control of his emotions. The warmth radiating from their bodies still lingered, but now it was mixed with a confusion he couldn’t quite name.
He looked into her eyes, searching for some sign of what she was thinking, but found nothing but gratitude and… perhaps curiosity. Something stirred within him again, an unsettling feeling he didn’t know how to process. Why did this affect him so much? Why did the simple sight of her tears move him so deeply? He shouldn’t care. She was his, and he would do with her as he pleased. Yet the idea that someone could have hurt her, that someone could have threatened her honor, enraged him in a way he couldn’t control.
Joffrey leaned in again, this time placing a gentle kiss on Sansa's forehead, almost reverently, a gesture he himself didn’t fully understand.
"Good night, Sansa" he murmured, his voice softer than usual, almost a whisper.
He stepped back slowly, as if something within him resisted the idea of leaving the room, but he didn’t know how to deal with what he felt. Each step he took away from her felt laden with weight, with an unsatisfied desire and confusion he had no tools to understand.
As he left the room and closed the door behind him, Joffrey ran a hand through his hair, trying to reorder his thoughts. But the only thing that remained clear in his mind was Sansa’s face, the touch of her lips, and the way her eyes, finally, showed not fear but something far more dangerous to him: a real connection. And that terrified him as much as it excited him.
Chapter 4: Justice and Fire
Summary:
"And who better than Your Grace to teach them that gratitude?" she said, her voice sweet. "Imagine, my king, how it would be if a ship of grain arrived at the gates, as a gift from your own hand. The stories of such a generous king would echo for centuries. What better way to ensure the people’s loyalty than through kindness?"
Notes:
Hello everyone...
First of all, I apologize for not posting a chapter last week 😞 I was really busy at the beginning of that week and didn't have time to write.
Secondly, I apologize for the time the chapter is being posted today. It was supposed to be posted every Wednesday night, but here I am posting it in the early hours of a Thursday... Honestly, I didn't think I'd be able to post it again this week. I went to a Bruno Mars concert last weekend and came back destroyed (although the concert was incredible), I'm a bit sick and tired, but I didn't want to go two weeks without posting. This chapter has everything I had previously planned for it, but maybe it's not as well written as the others 🥺
Thirdly, thank you again to everyone who is following this fic, I didn't expect this much attention for a Joff/Sansa fanfic, but I'm very grateful for your comments and kudos! ❤️🔥❤️🔥
Happy reading!
Chapter Text
Joffrey
Joffrey left Sansa's chamber with firm steps, but what he truly sought upon leaving was some kind of escape, a refuge from the new emotions amassing like an army encircling his thoughts. Yet, as soon as he crossed the threshold of his own room, he realized how deluded he had been. Sansa was like a persistent shadow, marking him with her image in a way he could never evade. He threw himself onto the bed, but the attempt to rest brought no relief. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the memory of her touch, the silent surrender in the kiss, inflamed the desire he so sought to control.
He turned, restless, his head spinning in a whirlwind of confused and contradictory thoughts. In another time, he would have considered this a weakness. His mother had taught him well about the importance of dominating everything and everyone around him, about how control was a king's true weapon. But there, in that lonely dawn, the fortress of control he had built over his life seemed to crumble. He closed his eyes for a moment, but soon found himself before a vast emptiness, like an abyss threatening to swallow him.
The desire for Sansa had always been there. When he was younger, he had seen her as a promise, a possession that would stand beside him on the Iron Throne, crowned and grateful for being chosen. But the desire consuming him now was a torrent, a fierce and instinctive need. Something had changed. Now he wanted her, not just to have and display, but to possess her in a way she could never refuse or escape. She would be his, not because she was his fiancée, but because he desired it so.
Finally, exhausted from fighting his own shadows, Joffrey forced himself to push those thoughts aside. The sun was already threatening to break the horizon, and he had a duty to fulfill. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to put the ruthless king's mask back on his face, while dressing with near-mechanical precision. The face in the mirror reflected the determined king, and any trace of vulnerability had been carefully swept away. When he was ready, he called Ser Meryn Trant, his loyal guard, and together they made their way through the still-silent castle to the cells.
Their footsteps echoed in the dark corridor, Joffrey's boots resonating with determination and a subtle menace that preceded his arrival. It didn’t take long for them to reach their destination, where Ser Boros waited, awake and taken by an expression of astonishment that grew when he saw the king at the door. Joffrey observed the guard with cold eyes, calculating every gesture like a predator on the prowl.
"Ser Boros" Joffrey broke the silence as he entered the cell. "I... regret what I did last night."
The voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a calculated tone that Boros didn’t detect. The guard seemed to relax slightly, but was soon taken by an expression of uncertainty, trying to understand if it was a promise of salvation or a harbinger of something worse.
"I regret the beating I gave you" Joffrey said, a bitter satisfaction spreading in his mind. "But I had to act. Sansa made the accusation in front of others. A lie, of course, but some would listen."
Ser Boros, confused, murmured something, but Joffrey interrupted him.
"Don’t be mistaken, Ser Boros" he continued, his voice hardening with calculated coldness. "I know that Lady Sansa lies. She wants attention. She wants me to protect her, to feel... indebted. Like any woman, she’s manipulative." Joffrey lied, knowing it was necessary to deceive Boros.
Ser Boros opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. Joffrey’s eyes glinted, and he sensed the guard was wavering, inclined to accept the words without questioning them.
"But everyone believes her, Boros" Joffrey continued. "If you deny the accusations, the court will demand your head for lying to your king, even if you’re telling the truth. So, here’s what you’ll do..."
With each word, he saw Boros’ face crumble. The guard began to understand he was in a trap, one he could not escape without sacrifices. Joffrey, however, offered him a glimmer of hope.
"Confess your "desires" for Sansa. Say you intended to take her for yourself, that you had ambitions... go to the Throne Room, kneel, and beg for forgiveness. I will be merciful and send you to the Wall, instead of taking your head. And if that happens, Ser Boros... I will make you Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch."
Boros’ expression wavered between despair and disbelief, until Joffrey finished with a calculated touch of venom.
"Don’t worry" he said smoothly. "I’ll make sure you’re well rewarded. I’ll send money. You deserve it, after so many years of loyalty."
Ser Boros stared at him with an almost desperate intensity, as if trying to read any truth in the king’s words that he could cling to.
Inside, Joffrey could barely contain the disdain and satisfaction growing as he watched the guard fall for the deception. He observed as Ser Boros lowered his head, processing each detail, and then let out a silent laugh.
Joffrey left the cells with a confidence rising to his chest, a poisoned satisfaction he savored like the sweetest nectar. The plan was in motion, and Ser Boros, blind with the hope of clemency, was playing exactly as he wanted. Soon, he would be free to eliminate the guard without stirring any revolt at court or murmurs from the people. After all, what he would do would be the just punishment of a King to protect his fiancée’s honor. He would be, in others’ eyes, a zealous and protective monarch, a king whose actions were as necessary as they were praiseworthy.
As he entered the dining hall, the atmosphere was calm. Several dishes adorned the table, and he settled at one end, attentively observing the arranged banquet. There were dark, soft breads, still steaming; fresh butter rested nearby, within his reach. Fresh fruits gleamed under the gentle morning light – slices of apples, pears, and even pomegranates, their ruby seeds like drops of blood. Ser Meryn approached to serve him a morning goblet of wine, spiced with cinnamon and cloves, and Joffrey raised the goblet to his lips, savoring the warm bitterness that filled his throat.
He bit into a well-seasoned piece of ham, followed by a few sips of wine, while thoughts of Ser Boros' impending fate brought him an almost intoxicating tranquility. His mind wandered, anticipating the moment when the man would kneel in the Throne Room, sweating and trembling, pleading for mercy before the court, while Joffrey would be there, proud, representing the arm of justice. He raised another slice of apple to his lips, his eyes gleaming with malice and a voracious anticipation.
When breakfast ended, Joffrey wiped his lips, stood, and adjusted his mantle. It was time to go to the Throne Room. His entrance was met with the due respect and fear he had so skillfully cultivated. He walked to the Iron Throne with firm steps, ignoring the bows and glances of courtiers and guards filling the hall. The majesty of the Iron Throne awaited him, and he sat, feeling each blade forged in its symbol of power.
The petition session began immediately. Peasants and nobles came forward, each bringing a request, a complaint, or a dispute for the king to resolve. He listened with a look of disdain, rarely concealed. His patience, however, began to wear thin. With each plea, each voice raised for some insignificant cause, his attention drifted. The thought of Boros confessing the "heinous" crime weighed more on his mind than anything else at that moment.
It was then that his eyes met Sansa’s, positioned at the back of the room, dressed in a soft, light fabric, her expression serene yet hiding what he suspected was an agitated mind. When their gazes met, she blushed, turning her face away, but it was impossible not to notice the flush on her cheeks. Joffrey almost smiled. The sight of her in that state of vulnerability made his blood pulse more intensely. She knew he had the power to grant justice; she feared and desired him in equal measure, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
Then Ser Arys Oakheart approached, bowing before he spoke:
"Your Majesty, Ser Boros Blount requests an audience. He has something to confess."
Excitement struck Joffrey like a current. His heart quickened, and he raised his head, nodding with an almost theatrical air.
"Bring him at once" he ordered, his voice filled with authority.
It didn’t take long before Ser Boros appeared before the king. His eyes were devoid of hope; there was an almost visible despair as he knelt before Joffrey, his shoulders hunched and breathing uneven. Ser Boros lowered his head in a sign of submission, and when he began to speak, his voice was laden with hesitation, like a man bearing the weight of unspeakable shame.
"Your Majesty… I confess I was overtaken by desire for Lady Sansa" he stammered, his voice a low whisper, but loud enough for those present to hear. "And that... in my weakness... I desired to take her for myself, even knowing she is promised to Your Grace."
The words were like music to Joffrey’s ears. Inwardly, he nearly vibrated with satisfaction, but he kept his face impassive, a mask of severe disapproval. He leaned slightly forward, observing Ser Boros with eyes that feigned compassion and justice.
"Perhaps the gods will forgive your sinful thoughts" Joffrey said in a somber tone, feigning sorrow. "But as king, it is my duty to deliver justice in my fiancée’s honor."
The look of horror in Boros' eyes was unmistakable. Joffrey savored each moment, delighting in the desperation he glimpsed there. He saw when Ser Ilyn approached, his hand on his sword, ready to execute whatever Joffrey commanded, but the king raised a hand, signaling him to wait.
"Bring me my sword" he ordered, in a tone that sounded almost casual, but laced with deadly intent.
The Hound held Ser Boros firmly, while a guard brought Joffrey’s sword. He gripped it, feeling its familiar weight in his hand, an instrument that now bore more than just steel – it was the symbol of his absolute power over the life and death of his subjects.
He approached Boros, his steps slow and calculated, and with the tip of the blade, brought it close to the man’s face.
"Eyes that dared covet my betrothed" murmured Joffrey, pressing the sword's tip against Boros' first eye, pushing mercilessly until the guard’s scream of pain echoed through the hall.
"Let this be a lesson" he continued, as he thrust the blade into Boros' second eye, drawing an even more desperate scream from him. "For anyone who looks at Lady Sansa with sinful intentions."
Ser Boros screamed, struggling in vain as blood poured from his empty eye sockets. Joffrey motioned for the Hound to hold the guard’s head firmly.
"Stay still" the Hound growled, looking down at the bloodied man with disdain. "Die like a man."
With the sword firmly in his hands, Joffrey recited a brief prayer, more out of formality than faith, and raised the blade before delivering the blow. Boros' head separated cleanly from his body, rolling across the floor and staining the marble with the intense red of his blood.
Joffrey raised his gaze to the court, his eyes passing over those who looked away, unable to face what had just happened. He smiled, satisfied, until his eyes met Sansa’s once more. This time, she didn’t look away. She watched Ser Boros' head, and Joffrey noticed, with a twinge of pleasure, something that almost looked like approval in her blue eyes.
***
Sansa
Sansa watched silently as Ser Boros' head was severed from his body and rolled across the floor, staining the marble of the Throne Room with a vibrant red. Her eyes, blue as ice, remained fixed on the scene without even blinking. The image of the blood, the shocked expressions of the court, and Boros’ final scream echoed within her, but, unlike what might have happened in another time, she did not feel the usual horror. There was, instead, a calculated coldness, an unusual taste of victory upon seeing him punished.
And that taste was even more intense as she watched Joffrey, with a morbid authority, order that Ser Boros’ head be displayed on the walls. This was more than just an execution. It was a symbol. An act meant to mark the loyalty of all his subjects and, at the same time, to cement his dominance. Boros Blount was no one special, but his sentence demonstrated that the king would do anything for her – or at least, so he wanted everyone to believe.
Shortly after, as the nobles murmured among themselves, Joffrey approached Sansa. His eyes, which moments earlier had been filled with restrained cruelty, now shone with a calculated sweetness.
"Come, Lady Sansa." His voice was low but clear. "Allow me to accompany you to the gardens. It will only be for a few moments, I promise, for I know you must be tired… as am I, from the restless night."
Sansa nodded, keeping a serene expression as she offered him her hand. She followed him through the castle corridors to the gardens. The air there was fresh, and the breeze blowing among the rosebushes brought a sweet scent, contrasting with the somber scene she had just witnessed. They passed under an arch covered in vines, entering an alley where sunlight peeked between the leaves, and she felt the tension in her shoulders loosen slightly. That familiar path, lined with flowers and statues, gave her a brief respite. But Joffrey’s presence beside her, the way he walked with her, was a constant reminder that she could not let her guard down.
After a few moments of silence, he looked at her, and there was something in his face that seemed almost vulnerable, as if he were pondering what to say. Finally, he broke the silence.
"About the... the kiss" he said, his voice almost hesitant. "I don’t want you to think it was just an impulse or an attempt to force you into something. I… I wanted you to know that I truly like how things are between us, Lady Sansa."
His words made her pause. Sansa turned her face to him, forcing an expression of uncertainty, of doubt. The truth was that, behind that mask, her heart was pounding, beating too fast. Joffrey was being sincere, or at least seemed to be. He was confessing feelings she didn’t know if she should believe or perhaps use against him. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, but she also knew it was the only way to survive in that world of masks and daggers.
"Joffrey" she replied, her voice slightly trembling, just enough to suggest fragility "I… I don’t know. How can I trust you after everything?" The sentence came out in a careful tone, wavering between fear and resentment. "I’m so afraid of being hurt again."
She looked away, letting her eyes fall on a bed of red roses, as if the words she had just spoken caused her pain. The effect was immediate; Joffrey moved a little closer, his hand hesitantly reaching her shoulder, in a gesture that, to anyone watching, might even seem affectionate.
"I won’t hurt you, Sansa. Not this time." He spoke with surprising firmness, his eyes fixed on her, full of a kind of intensity he rarely showed. "I promise I’ll be different… for you."
Her chin trembled slightly, as if trying to suppress an emotion threatening to emerge. She knew that this was more than a mere show. There was something in Joffrey’s voice, something that made him... almost human. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that he might actually be sincere, that the promises he was making weren’t as hollow as those of so many others.
But this glimpse of hope was quickly stifled. Sansa remembered the horror he had caused, the bitter memories and humiliations she had suffered. It didn’t matter how sweet he might seem at that moment; Joffrey Baratheon was a monster at his core, and she could not afford to forget that. She could not afford to weaken.
"Perhaps I should give you a chance" she murmured, keeping her eyes down, allowing doubt to linger in her expression. "But Joffrey, if I agree… you need to know my heart is still hurt. I… I need time to trust again."
Joffrey nodded, his expression softening in what seemed to be genuine relief.
"I understand, Sansa" he replied, his tone softening, becoming almost gentle. "I’m in no rush. I’ve waited so long for this moment… more than you realize."
Sansa gave him a hesitant smile, just enough to make him hopeful. She observed him from the corner of her eye, assessing his reactions, and could see the glint in his eyes, a glint that denoted more than mere satisfaction. There was something like hope, maybe even restrained joy. It was as if he believed that, finally, she had accepted him. And for a moment, she allowed herself to think that this illusion was all he needed.
As they walked onward, the morning sun bathed the gardens, and she felt the weight of the choices she was making. There was something deep in her chest that wanted to believe in Joffrey’s promises, a small part of her soul that wanted to surrender to this idea that he might be someone better... for her. But she knew that allowing herself such hope would be foolish. The roses around them were beautiful, but all had thorns; and Joffrey, though he cloaked his words carefully, hid thorns sharper than any other.
At the end of their walk, Sansa sighed softly, keeping her serene expression as she thanked Joffrey for his company. He smiled, satisfied, and briefly touched her hand, a gesture that, to anyone who saw, would seem innocent but to her was a reminder of her position. He was waiting for her acceptance, but it was she who, little by little, was taking control of that dangerous dance.
As she moved away, Sansa looked back, watching him for one last moment. Joffrey stood there, watching her go, and his expression was that of someone who finally believed he had found something precious. She, on the other hand, felt a mixture of triumph and bitter sadness. She had let him believe in the impossible, and, in doing so, she reminded herself of what she had sworn to herself: never to allow her feelings for him to go beyond the surface.
Back in her room, Sansa felt an unexpected weariness weighing on her shoulders, perhaps from the intense game of manipulation with Joffrey or the simple act of enduring the sight of his cold smile as he ordered an execution. As she opened the door, she was greeted by her maid, who looked at her with a mixture of apprehension and respect, as if understanding the gravity of that morning in the throne room.
"Would Lady Sansa like another bath?" the new maid asked in a submissive voice, her eyes lowered to the ground. Sansa had already washed that morning, and the scent of rose soaps still lingered on her skin. She dismissed the idea with a delicate wave of her hand.
"No, Beth. Just help me take off the dress" she said, her voice soft but firm. The maid promptly went to her, starting to undo the complex laces of the blue silk dress. While the young woman worked in silence, Sansa looked at the tapestries in the room, her eyes tracing familiar patterns. She still hadn’t gotten used to considering those chambers as truly hers; the court seemed always ready to change, the loyalties always unstable. When the last lace was undone and the weight of the dress slipped from her shoulders, she sighed in relief, as if she were freeing herself from a second skin.
"Wake me for lunch, Beth" she instructed, as she settled between the linen sheets and felt the immediate comfort of the bed. The maid murmured a “yes, my Lady” before leaving, closing the door softly.
As she surrendered to sleep, the world around her faded, the heavy curtains and high ceiling disappeared, and Sansa found herself in a deep dream, where the boundaries between reality and fantasy merged in a disconcerting way. And, as if her subconscious were playing with her, recent memories of moments with Joffrey reappeared – but distorted, mixed with what seemed like an alternate reality. She felt his lips on hers, a sweet and disturbing possession, something that caused a mixture of revulsion and pleasure in her chest. Joffrey’s hands slid over her body with a hunger that went beyond any real touch, a sense of possession and desire so vivid that her muscles tensed even as she slept.
When a soft knock on the door woke her, Sansa opened her eyes with a start, her heart beating erratically. For a moment, it took her a while to recognize where she was, the shadows and reality blending until she heard Beth’s calm voice, announcing that it was already lunchtime.
"Lady Sansa? May I come in?" the maid asked from outside.
Sansa took a deep breath, regaining her composure.
"Yes, Beth, come in."
Beth opened the door and approached to help Sansa dress again. The young lady, however, felt strangely moody and irritable. She shouldn’t be dreaming of Joffrey, and, even less, of something that made her feel that kind of conflicting desire. She knew, deep down, that these thoughts were dangerous – a subtle poison that would weaken her if she didn’t keep control. Her feelings needed to be always well-guarded, locked behind a mask of acceptance.
While Beth adjusted the cords of the new dress, a light cream fabric that highlighted the delicacy of her skin and the grace of her bearing, Sansa gazed at her reflection. Her expression softened as she adjusted a strand of hair, ensuring every detail was in place. When she judged herself sufficiently presentable, she nodded to the maid, who stepped back respectfully.
"You look beautiful, my Lady" Beth said, with a smile that Sansa returned with just a slight nod.
Leaving the room, Sansa walked down the corridors toward the gardens. She liked to have lunch in one of the covered pavilions, where a table awaited her, adorned with fresh flowers and the scent of the surrounding garden. The peace of that outdoor space was a relief from the rigid, heavy walls of the castle, a pause to breathe.
She was waiting for the meal to arrive when she heard approaching footsteps. Turning, she saw Joffrey. He wore dark clothing that contrasted with his fair skin and made his golden hair seem even brighter under the sun. Her heart gave a wrong beat; he was, in fact, surprisingly handsome, and, for a moment, the dream invaded her mind like a disturbing specter.
When he was close enough, Sansa rose and curtsied, and Joffrey, in an unusual gesture of courtesy, returned it.
"May I join you for lunch, Lady Sansa?" he asked, a slight smile on his lips, something Sansa found rather disarming.
"Of course, Your Grace" she replied, keeping her composure. Joffrey pulled her chair for her to sit again, and then took his place at the table.
Soon, the servants brought the meal, an exquisite sequence of dishes showcasing the splendor of royal cuisine: a pumpkin soup with cream and a hint of pepper, followed by roasted quails with a sweet and sour sauce, accompanied by golden, crispy rolls. Fresh fruits, mainly figs and grapes, adorned the table alongside a mild wine, completing the meal.
As they began to eat, Sansa noticed that Joffrey was watching her, and she knew this was the perfect moment to introduce the subject she had in mind. She was aware that she needed to be cautious, as any suggestion of criticism might displease the king. So, with a gentle tone and a soft smile, she mentioned the growing chaos in the city.
"Your Grace, I’ve heard troubling rumors about the people" she said, almost as if commenting on the weather. "Some say that hunger has been relentless for many... and that there have been disturbances among the subjects."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, seeming bothered by the mention of problems in his kingdom.
"There are always those who complain" he replied indifferently. "Banquets are essential for the court, Sansa. They maintain our image strong and… benevolent."
Sansa tilted her head slightly, nodding with an understanding expression, as if she agreed, but then let out a slight sigh.
"Certainly, Your Grace. It’s just that… I was reminded of stories my mother used to tell about generous kings." She paused, observing Joffrey's reaction. "Kings who, in times of need, sent food to their subjects, for they believed that the people’s well-being reflected the strength of their reign."
She allowed the words to linger in the air, and Joffrey seemed to ponder them, though his expression still showed some reluctance.
"Being benevolent doesn’t mean giving up respect, Lady Sansa" he replied. "These subjects need to learn to appreciate what they have."
Sansa smiled, pretending to concede to his words, then leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming with an enveloping softness.
"And who better than Your Grace to teach them that gratitude?" she said, her voice sweet. "Imagine, my king, how it would be if a ship of grain arrived at the gates, as a gift from your own hand. The stories of such a generous king would echo for centuries. What better way to ensure the people’s loyalty than through kindness?"
Joffrey stared at her for a few moments, his face slowly softening in response to her charm. She noticed when he, finally, seemed to give in.
"Perhaps… perhaps I could send a shipment of food" he murmured, with a thoughtful expression. "But only to show my magnanimity."
Sansa offered him one of her most beautiful smiles, her eyes shining with a pride that, though feigned, looked so genuine that even she nearly believed it.
"Thank you, Your Grace." She held his gaze with an expression of sincere gratitude that seemed so natural it could almost be real.
Joffrey smiled back, satisfied, seeming to believe that this expression truly belonged to him.
***
Tyrion
The dense, cold mist lurking in the depths of Rhaenys’ Hill seemed to condense around Tyrion Lannister as he descended, each step echoing on the stone stairs. The oil lamps, rare and faded by humidity, barely offered enough light for the long, dark stairway, and Tyrion mentally cursed the weight of the winter clothes wrapping him. Dressed in a shadowcat fur cloak, with dense, black fur, he felt ridiculously clumsy, but knew the cold of this place had a way of seeping into one’s bones. There was also an unspoken prudence in choosing such thick attire: any spark or spillage of wildfire, and he would wish for all the protection possible between his skin and that feared substance.
Ahead of him, carrying a faintly flickering lantern, walked Hallyne, the Pyromancer, in his faded green cloak, alchemical symbols loosely painted on the collar and cuffs. His steps were slow, calculated, as if he relished every second in Tyrion’s company. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the air became thicker, dense with acrid fumes and a humidity that brought to mind the stench of death and decay.
"Here we are, my lord" Hallyne whispered, a reverent touch in his voice. He raised the lantern, revealing a large room with shelves and racks covered in glass containers, each filled with a greenish liquid that seemed to pulse, alive, within its vessel. "Wildfire, the most powerful of our gifts."
Tyrion gazed at the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of flasks, suspended on reinforced shelves, each shimmering in its own way. It was like looking at a silent army, dormant, but carrying within it the potential for endless destruction. The sight disturbed and fascinated him in equal measure.
"Fascinating, indeed" murmured Tyrion, taking a cautious step toward one of the shelves. "And potentially fatal. How many of these flasks, Hallyne? How many of your little green demons are stored down here?"
"Enough to incinerate King’s Landing three times over, maybe four, if I may exaggerate, my lord" said the pyromancer, with a gleam of pride in his eyes. He touched one of the flasks with a thin fingertip, as if caressing a child. "Every drop of wildfire is a triumph, a masterpiece. There is no liquid more volatile and unpredictable in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Tyrion felt a wave of discomfort run down his spine. That substance had been his father Tywin’s obsession during the siege of King’s Landing, and Tyrion knew it had been the tool of destruction for the Mad King. And here he was, like his father before him, relying on the Alchemists’ Guild for a resource that seemed more a curse than a weapon.
"I imagine that this pride also implies a certain concern for safety" said Tyrion, his eyes narrowed as he inspected the flasks. "They say wildfire has the unfortunate tendency to... shall we say, ignite on its own."
Hallyne laughed, a dry, raspy sound that echoed in the cold walls of the cellar.
"A valid fear, certainly, but unfounded. The Alchemists' Guild has existed for centuries, and our methods are... safe. However" he paused, his face twisting into a smile that brought no comfort whatsoever "it is true that wildfire is a temperamental substance. Water does not extinguish it; in fact, it flares even more in contact with moisture. And there are certain ancient containers, made in the days of King Aerys..."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Ancient containers?"
"Yes, my lord. Flasks that were sealed decades ago, but that maintain a... instability. There are rumors that, during the reign of the Mad King, some of these flasks were made hastily, without the proper rituals. We believe these flasks pose a greater risk. We do not touch them, and no one is permitted to handle them without my consent."
The mention of the Mad King and his unstable flasks made Tyrion release a long sigh.
"And these old flasks, are they stored here as well? In this very room?"
Hallyne hesitated.
"Yes, but on separate shelves. We are working to replace them, but, as I said, it is a delicate task."
"Delicate... Certainly" murmured Tyrion, casting one last skeptical look at the flasks.
The conversation then turned to the practical details of using wildfire, with Tyrion insisting on knowing how many flasks could be produced, stored, and transported safely. The idea of thousands of flasks wandering the streets of King’s Landing, like little deadly traps, deeply unsettled him. He trusted his own judgment, but he knew the city was rife with chaos and hunger, and any mistake could be disastrous.
"I will request thousands of empty flasks, Hallyne" said Tyrion, his voice firm. "They will be distributed to the captains and defenders of the city. And I want specific instructions for each of them. If there is any slip-up, any accidental explosion..."
"There won’t be, my lord" assured Hallyne, though the arrogance in his voice only fed Tyrion’s mistrust.
He looked around one last time, the cellar’s atmosphere weighing on his shoulders, before beginning to walk back up the stairs. Hallyne followed, carrying the lantern that cast elongated shadows on the stone walls, giving them the appearance of demonic creatures lurking in the dark.
As they ascended, Hallyne commented:
"The young king has ordered a ban on banquets, a decision that some among us considered... harsh, given the traditions of war and the expectations of the court. But perhaps a demonstration of our work might entertain him, no? A sample of wildfire to cheer him up?"
Tyrion laughed, the sound echoing with a note of bitterness.
"To cheer him, perhaps. To give him power, definitely not. Joffrey has a peculiar taste for danger, but I won’t feed that... fascination, Hallyne."
"As you wish, my lord" replied the pyromancer, somewhat disappointed.
Upon reaching the top of the staircase, Tyrion straightened himself, bidding farewell with a brief nod. Timett, son of Timett, waited outside, with his face painted, piercing eyes, and a terrible scar that cut across the left side of his face. The Burned Men, the highland savages, were terrifying to most, but Tyrion saw in them a clear utility.
"Let’s go, Timett" he said, adjusting the thick cloak on his shoulders.
They exited to the city streets, where a cold breeze brought the stench of the river and the rat-infested alleys. Tyrion reflected on his visit to the Alchemists' Guild, and, as he walked, his memories returned to the night when a crowd had been attacked, shortly before Ser Boros’s execution. He thought of the tension simmering among the people, a mix of hunger and rage that threatened to explode at any moment.
That morning, Joffrey had told him he intended to reduce banquets and send more food to the people of the city. Tyrion almost laughed at the proposal, as it seemed unlikely that Joffrey would have come up with such an idea without outside influence. Sansa, Tyrion suspected, had somehow planted this idea in the king’s mind, and he made a mental note to pay more attention to her methods in the future. After all, the Stark girl was showing an unexpected ability to adapt to the game.
But something else was catching Tyrion’s attention. He knew Joffrey had come to him to avoid the council meeting, as the young king’s mother was furious. Tyrion suspected that Cersei’s anger wasn’t only due to her son’s impulsive behavior; it was also because he had executed Ser Boros without consulting her. This growing rift between mother and son was at once a source of problems and an opportunity.
As they continued down the streets toward the Red Keep, Tyrion smirked, his mind full of plans and calculations.
While Tyrion watched the chaos unfold in Cobbler’s Square, he couldn’t help but be entertained by the ranting of a beggar prophet, who, with a raspy, fervent voice, decried the moral and spiritual decline of the realm. With each accusatory phrase — “Children of Lann! This kingdom rots!” — his words inflamed the crowd, who, hungry and angry, echoed his sentiments. The commoners, skeletal and dirty, seemed to see in his speech a truth closer to their own misery. Nodding slightly, Tyrion allowed himself an amused but attentive smile. The murmurs were nothing new, though the beggar’s invocation of the red comet as a sign of a “divine revolution” was the final touch of drama that the peasants so craved. But Tyrion was no fool. He knew that, while these words were laced with exaggerations and delusions, they resonated with the hunger and hatred simmering beneath King’s Landing’s faded veneer.
Satisfied with his moment of observation, Tyrion pulled his hood up and made his way back to the Red Keep. As soon as he crossed the gates, he found Bronn waiting with a serious expression.
"A message from Cersei. Cleos Frey has returned from Riverrun" Bronn informed him, handing over a sealed letter. "She wants to see you immediately."
Tyrion nodded, already imagining his sister’s impatience and the venomous tone of her words. Cersei did not want peace; she wanted glory, blood, and victory — and Tyrion knew that her father shared these ambitions. Upon reaching his quarters, he found Cersei standing, her lips pressed, a shadow of anger in her face as she looked at him.
"Finally" she murmured, crossing her arms. "My cousin arrived hours ago, but you seem to have more to do than fulfill your duty as Hand."
Tyrion bowed with a slight, theatrical reverence.
"Forgive me, dear sister, but a beggar prophet was keeping the people entertained. I couldn’t ignore his oratory…" he said, his eyes gleaming with irony.
She scoffed impatiently.
"Cleos brought a letter from Robb Stark. A peace proposal."
Tyrion raised his eyebrows, taking the scroll. As he broke the seal and began to read his nephew’s words, he studied each line, analyzing the demands. Robb wanted the Riverlands to be recognized as Stark territory, along with the North, and full autonomy for what he called the “Kingdom of the North.” Tyrion pursed his lips.
"Does he really think we would accept this?" Tyrion murmured, his voice low, as if talking to himself. "Robb is young, but he is no fool."
Cersei watched him, her hands clenched around her skirt.
"Does he think we are that weak without Jaime?" she asked, her voice filled with resentment. "Or does he underestimate us?"
Tyrion took a deep breath, pocketing the scroll, still deep in thought.
"Stark knows our position, but perhaps he underestimates our resolve" he replied, choosing his words carefully. "Robb may be desperate. His troops are far from the North, fighting in unfamiliar lands."
Cersei interrupted him with a piercing look.
"And you want to send Myrcella to Dorne. What a brilliant plan for the Hand of the King, selling my daughter to a pack of treacherous vipers."
Tyrion held her gaze. This clash was all too familiar, and Cersei’s intensity no longer intimidated him.
"She would be safer in Dorne, where she could build an alliance with Doran Martell" he said, his tone calm but incisive. "King’s Landing is no place for innocent children… especially a Lannister princess."
Cersei’s expression hardened, and in a sudden movement, her hand swung up, striking him across the face. Tyrion composed himself, looking at her with a mixture of defiance and understanding. He observed her eyes, glistening with suppressed fury, but behind the mask of strength, he saw something deeper. Cersei blinked, and a single tear slipped down her cheek before she brushed it away with a brusque gesture.
"Don’t do this to me" she whispered, averting her gaze, and for a moment, Tyrion saw her as the girl she once was, vulnerable and desperate.
Regaining her composure, Cersei lifted her head, her voice trembling yet laced with hatred.
"You think you can manipulate everyone, even my son. He’s been acting… strangely, as if he’s in love. I know you’re meddling with him. I won’t accept a Stark ruling over Joffrey!"
Tyrion stifled a smile.
"If Sansa truly manages to control him, dear sister, she’s doing a fine job and might as well put a leash on Joffrey and parade him as her dog."
The second slap came faster, and he nearly staggered. For an instant, the silence between them was absolute, broken only by Cersei’s heavy breathing.
Tyrion rose slowly, rubbing his bruised cheek, though his eyes were calm.
"I want to protect our family, Cersei, but for that we need the security of alliances – he stated, his voice gentler. "Our father will see that Myrcella in Dorne is an insurance for us. And as for Robb Stark… if he wants peace, let’s give him an answer he didn’t expect."
He knew that answer could come in ways Robb never imagined: perhaps with wildfire, perhaps with shrewd manipulations. Tyrion reflected on the letter, the red comet in the sky, and the prophet in the square. He knew the odds were on his side, and the resources he had allowed him to prepare King’s Landing to resist or at least leave an indelible mark on history.
Leaving Cersei’s presence, he instructed Ser Jacelyn to take care of Cleos and ensure he stayed housed outside the walls, away from King’s Landing’s hungry citizens. After the brief exchange, Tyrion walked toward his final task for the day. He needed to meet the alchemists and ensure his soldiers learned to handle wildfire. He observed the city around him, the gleaming fortress against the somber sky, and recognized that his game was risky — and that his only hope was to turn the cunning politics of the Lannisters into a true masterstroke.
Chapter 5: Peace Attempts
Summary:
“I know you’re the King, my lord,” she whispered, her tone filled with sweetness and a hint of admiration that made Joffrey lift his chin with pride. “And no one can contest that. But, you see… mothers sometimes have a tendency to want to protect, even to an exaggerated extent. And, in the case of Queen Cersei...” she paused thoughtfully, then continued, “perhaps she enjoys having... influence over your reign.”
Notes:
Good evening, everyone! How was your Wednesday?
First of all, a THOUSANDS OF SORRY for not having updated this fanfic last week, but I was in a rush because of some research I had to present at a conference, now I'm in a more relaxed period and I can guarantee chapters for the rest of the weeks of the month 😄
Secondly, I'll never tire of thanking you for your comments and kudos, I would never have expected such attention for a Joff/Sansa story... I'm so grateful, I love you! 😍
Thirdly, you'll notice a change in the format of the chapters... Since I translate the chapters myself, I used to separate the lines with the “-”, as is customary in Portuguese, but since some people have reported difficulty understanding other stories because they're used to the quotation marks ("), I've decided to post them this way from now on, and I'll soon be editing the previous chapters to this format too.
Well, I've said too much, have a good read! 😛
Chapter Text
Sansa
Sansa adjusted herself on the blanket spread out over the grass, the warmth of the autumn sun caressing her face, while the high branches around her whispered in response to the light breeze that passed through the garden. In front of her, King Joffrey watched her with eyes that seemed to shine like sapphires under the sunlight. Today, he looked like a prince from the tales she had heard in her childhood, with light blonde hair gleaming against the shade of the trees and a satisfied, contained smile.
Between them lay a large basket, filled with ripe fruits, freshly baked bread, and thin cuts of meat. Sansa noticed the juicy apples with red-colored skins, the figs cut into perfect halves, whose seeds resembled rubies sprinkled on their crimson pulp. Nearby were dark, sweet grapes, accompanied by a piece of goat cheese that spread a soft, slightly spicy aroma. A small jar of thick golden honey rested beside the fruits, and bread stuffed with fresh herbs and melted butter filled the air with an aroma that made Sansa remember the autumn mornings in Winterfell.
She served herself a slice of bread, savoring the smooth flavor of the butter and the aromatic touch of fresh herbs as Joffrey watched her with curiosity. He picked up a piece of apple and offered it to her, but before Sansa could open her mouth to accept, he leaned in, holding her by the nape of her neck with one hand and bringing the fruit to her lips with a smile.
“Taste it, Sansa,” he said in a tone that sounded almost like a whisper, a malicious gleam dancing in his eyes.
She bit into the slice and tasted the sweet acidity of the apple in her mouth, but soon Joffrey pulled her in for a kiss, his lips warmer than the sun. The taste of the fruit mixed with the touch of his lips, and the desire he showed was intense, firm. Sansa parted her lips, feeling Joffrey’s kiss deepen. It was a hungry, possessive kiss, as if he were determined to make her forget everything – her family, Winterfell, even herself.
His hand slid from her face to the delicate line of her neck, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself to be briefly led into the warmth of it, as if caught in a dream. The kiss, growing hotter, made her thoughts blur, and Sansa forced herself to remember that what she felt was dangerous, as if she were getting too close to a burning flame.
But when she pulled away slightly, her lips still touching his, she saw the satisfaction in Joffrey’s smile. His face was illuminated by the passion he clearly felt without restraint, and Sansa realized the depth of his desire for her. A part of her feared what that desire could mean; another, darker and strategic, wondered if she could use this to her advantage.
After a few moments, Joffrey took a glass of wine and, without bothering to use a second, drank from it directly before offering it to Sansa. She accepted with trembling hands, taking a small sip while her eyes examined his face, attentive, preparing for any sudden change in mood.
“Sansa,” he began in an apparently casual tone, “I received a letter this morning. News of your brother. Robb Stark.”
She straightened, forcing herself to keep a calm expression, though she felt a nervous tremor in her stomach.
“My brother?” she replied, trying to keep her tone casual.
“Yes.” He looked at the horizon before bringing his attention back to her. “In his proposal for peace, he... well, there are some conditions. And one of them… one in particular, I must say, I found... intriguing.”
He was watching her closely, as if trying to discern her reaction before continuing. She simply waited, repressing any visible emotion.
“Robb wants to break our engagement,” he revealed slowly, watching her sideways to capture every small detail in her response. “He wants the promise of your hand to me to be undone.”
The declaration lingered in the air, almost tangible, while Sansa tried to process it. She felt her heart quicken, and for an instant, a hint of relief, almost hope. To be freed from Joffrey, to be freed from this fate, would mean she could return to being Sansa Stark, daughter of Winterfell. But... soon her eyes returned to Joffrey, and she saw in him an expression almost sad, almost vulnerable, as if this were a blow to his honor.
Sansa gathered all her willpower, hiding the true whirlwind of thoughts that swirled inside her. Instead of showing relief, she chose to let a touch of hesitation, perhaps even a bit of longing, show. What would it take to convince Joffrey of her devotion without losing sight of what mattered most: her family?
“That would be... difficult for me,” she murmured, lowering her eyes while allowing a trace of sadness to mark her expression. “Despite everything, I… like being by your side, Joffrey.”
Joffrey seemed to absorb her words, and his look changed. The desire returned, now mixed with a touch of possessiveness. He leaned in closer, his fingers lightly sliding along her hand, holding it with firmness.
“But you want to return to your family, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and thoughtful. There was a note of distrust there, a sound that Sansa knew all too well.
She pondered for a moment, struggling against the urge to say what Joffrey wanted to hear, to promise him that he was her world. But if she placed Joffrey above everything, he would see through the lie. Instead, she chose something more honest, something he might accept.
“Yes, I miss them,” she admitted in a low, almost broken voice. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Joffrey. I just wanted… I wanted to find a way to... have both. To be with my family and at your side.”
Joffrey watched her, his eyes narrowing, his lips pressed together, and for a brief moment, she almost thought he was about to refuse to believe her. But then, after a heavy sigh, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“I understand,” he said, and the note of distrust in his voice softened.
Relieved, Sansa moved closer to him once again, letting her fingers softly trace his face before leaning in for another kiss. This time, she allowed herself to surrender to the moment, opening herself to the intensity with which Joffrey kissed her, as if he were determined to seal the promise she had left implied with that gesture. His lips were demanding, hungry, but she yielded with grace, knowing that, as long as he desired her this way, she would have a weapon against him.
The kiss deepened, and Sansa felt his hands sliding down her back, to her waist, pulling her against him, his warmth enveloping her, dominating her. She closed her eyes, feeling the firm, possessive touch, and let the moment stretch for longer seconds, until, with a ragged breath, she pulled away slightly but stayed close enough to feel the heat of his face against hers.
She opened her eyes and saw him smiling, satisfied and vulnerable, his expression softened, almost tender.
He held her chin, keeping her close as he gave her a last gentle kiss, as if savoring that moment.
“I’ll think about it, Sansa. I’ll find a way to keep you with me... even if your family insists on that ridiculous request,” he whispered, his voice laden with promise.
Sansa rested her eyes on Joffrey’s face, staying close, almost in an intimate murmur that only the two would share under the garden’s shadows. The golden light filtered through the leaves, dancing across the King’s face and highlighting his sharp, defined angles. She saw the pride in the smile he wore after his promise and realized, as she studied him, the vulnerability beginning to form beneath that facade of authority and power. This, to Sansa, was a rare treasure – Joffrey was in her hands, though he didn’t even realize how exposed he was.
He pulled away slightly, thoughtful, as if savoring the commitment he had just made, but soon his expression took on a tone of discontent.
“I don’t know why my mother despises this so much… I mean, the fact that we’re getting along,” he muttered, not really directing the question at Sansa, but more as a restless thought that had slipped out. “What could be more beneficial to our family than us… being united?”
She caught the glimmer of dissatisfaction in his gaze, and a flicker of satisfaction shimmered within her. This was the exact moment she had waited for, like a wolf stalking its prey. The words were already ready in her mind, calculated and sharp, but, as a true lady would, she presented them in a soft, almost concerned tone.
“Maybe because she feels she’s...” Sansa hesitated for a moment, feigning a touch of reluctance before continuing, “... losing control over you.”
Joffrey frowned, visibly irritated by the idea. The scowl on his face was obvious, but Sansa touched his collar, adjusting it gently, and he seemed to relax under her touch. Her hand slid lightly over the collar’s fabric, as if she wished to comfort him, but the effect was much more calculated. She knew he was listening to her with doubled attention.
“Control?” Joffrey scoffed, almost incredulously. “My mother doesn’t control me. I am the King, Sansa.”
She leaned in a little closer to him, her hand sliding smoothly down his arm, her nails grazing him lightly in a way that made him shiver. Her touch seemed to calm him, although she noticed the slight tremor of tension—or was it desire?—that seized him.
“I know you’re the King, my lord,” she whispered, her tone filled with sweetness and a hint of admiration that made Joffrey lift his chin with pride. “And no one can contest that. But, you see… mothers sometimes have a tendency to want to protect, even to an exaggerated extent. And, in the case of Queen Cersei...” she paused thoughtfully, then continued, “perhaps she enjoys having... influence over your reign.”
He seemed to take the words with disbelief, his expression growing tense, but Sansa noticed that he was reflecting on what he had heard. Joffrey was not someone who accepted being manipulated; for Sansa, this was a matter of adapting the truth with the precision of a needle stitching embroidery. Cersei was possessive, an undeniable truth, and Joffrey could be convinced that this possessiveness was, in fact, a challenge to his own freedom as King.
“I don’t know why you’d think that,” he retorted, with a voice betraying more doubt than conviction.
She bit her lip lightly, as if pondering the best way to proceed. Then, leaning closer to him, she climbed onto his lap and embraced him with a gaze that mixed sweetness and vulnerability. Joffrey’s face was mere inches from hers, and she gave him a soft, lingering kiss before pulling back just enough to whisper, her breath brushing against his face:
“Joffrey, I... I fear that she may try to prevent our happiness. Sometimes I think she sees me as a threat to the love she wants you to have only for her. And maybe… maybe she feels the only way to keep you by her side is by trying to interfere with your heart.”
Her words were laden with subtlety, and she carefully observed Joffrey’s reaction. He seemed to struggle with what he was hearing, his eyes narrowing as his hands remained on her waist, as if he were holding onto her and searching for balance. Yet the hesitation was beginning to give way to an expression of understanding, the pride replaced by a spark of suspicion that she knew how to nurture.
“My mother has always been… too protective,” he admitted reluctantly, his tone still tinged with distrust. “But you really think she would… manipulate me? She’s my mother, Sansa.”
Sansa nodded gently, tracing invisible circles on his shoulder with her fingertips.
“I don’t think she wants to manipulate you, but perhaps… she does it without realizing it.” She infused a touch of hesitation into her voice, as if she were afraid to confess this. “She loves you, Joffrey. But sometimes, love can make people want to shape those they care about.”
He sighed, and Sansa knew she was gaining ground. Seeing his distraction, she leaned in closer, bringing her lips to his neck and placing soft kisses while feeling his breath falter, his body reacting under her touch.
“I even fear what she might do,” she murmured between the kisses. “Sometimes, she looks at me with a fury that seems... deadly. Just because... we understand each other.”
Joffrey pulled away slightly, his eyes suddenly sparking with interest and anger. He slid a firm hand down Sansa’s back, pulling her to him in a decisive movement, his gaze intense.
“I won’t let her hurt you, Sansa. No one will. Not the Queen, nor my own blood.” His voice trembled with a mix of anger and determination, as if he were finally convincing himself he needed to protect Sansa. “You are mine, and I’ll make sure nothing—no one—interferes with that.”
Sansa felt a wave of satisfaction at his words, and a soft smile curved her lips. She looked at him with carefully staged gratitude, then kissed him passionately, sealing her victory with the taste of triumph. Joffrey’s lips took hers with overwhelming intensity, the kiss firm and hungry, and she responded with equal fervor, letting herself lose herself for a moment in the heat of it.
As she kissed him, Sansa felt euphoria grow in her chest, each touch and each response from Joffrey becoming proof of the victory she had just achieved. She knew that, somewhere in his mind, he was beginning to doubt Cersei’s authority over him, and that was all she needed to pave the way for her own plans.
Pulling back slightly, she let a subtle and almost provocative smile play across her face. He watched her, enchanted and with evident desire, but she kept her expression placid, satisfied. This was more than just a triumph over Cersei; it was a step toward the freedom she so longed for.
***
Joffrey
While Joffrey rested on his Iron Throne, his eyes gleamed with a curious unease. The throne room was full, as usual, with subjects and advisors gathered before him, but, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t push from his mind the memory of the kisses exchanged with Sansa the day before. It was something new for him, a pulsating and unfamiliar sensation, reverberating through his body and making him scan the hall anxiously. His eyes wandered over the crowd until they found Sansa, farther back in the room, with a serene face and downcast eyes, as she was expected to behave. He wanted her to look at him, to share some sign that that moment was still alive for her as well. But Sansa remained composed, ethereal, a statue of grace that seemed almost indifferent to his presence.
Joffrey suppressed a sigh and straightened up on the throne. The cold steel of the crown rested on his forehead, a constant pressure that reminded him of his role. He was the king and was there to hear the last petitions of the day. Yet, his mind wavered between the formality of the moment and the fresh memories of Sansa, her lips on his, the silent promises he now, more than ever, wished to fulfill. She seemed so delicate and sweet and made him feel a unique strength and power, as if she could see the true king he was.
The audience continued, with subjects making minor pleas, requests, and complaints that he dismissed with a mixture of disdain and impatience. But then, a dark and gloomy figure stepped forward to the center of the hall. Ser Alliser Thorne, of the Night’s Watch, a sullen man wrapped in a tattered cloak that exuded the weight of the Wall and the perpetually accumulating snow.
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, barely containing his contempt. Ser Alliser seemed out of place here, a bearer of bad omens who had brought a heavy and somber atmosphere to the hall, interrupting Joffrey’s comforting thoughts.
“Your Majesty,” began Ser Alliser, his voice grave and marked by the cold that seemed embedded in his skin, “I come on behalf of the Night’s Watch. There is news of great importance… and urgency.”
Joffrey gestured impatiently with his hand.
“Speak up, man. We don’t have all day for tales from rangers.”
Alliser took a step forward, facing the mocking glances of some nearby nobles, but remained firm.
“Your soldiers should hear this,” continued Ser Alliser. “Something dark has happened beyond the Wall. Two men of the Night’s Watch… killed in battle... returned to life. They rose and attacked others among us, injuring and nearly killing Lord Commander Mormont himself.”
For a moment, a chilling silence fell over the hall. Joffrey looked at Ser Alliser, and a crooked smile began to form on his lips. The audience, too, soon erupted in murmurs of disbelief, some laughing openly. The idea was absurd, the story as fantastical as a children’s tale, and Joffrey felt tempted to dismiss the ranger right there, considering the petition an insult to his intelligence.
“Men returning from the dead?” Joffrey asked with a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t you rangers have anything better to do up at the Wall? Fighting wildlings and endless snow not enough? Now you want to entangle us with stories of the undead? Is that the state of the Night’s Watch, Ser Alliser?”
A ripple of laughter swept through the hall. Ser Alliser, however, remained stiff, though a hint of frustration was visible on his weathered face.
“It’s not a story, Your Majesty,” he replied, his voice thick with contained indignation. “Mormont saw it with his own eyes. The Night’s Watch is facing something far beyond wildlings, far beyond the cold. We’re talking about the undead, horrors that only the darkness could bring. We came south seeking aid… and men. Men who know that their lives are worth the price of protecting the entire realm, not just their own lands.”
Joffrey laughed, a sound cold and disdainful.
“And you really believe I’ll give serious men, well-trained soldiers, to deal with... what? Ghosts? Undead? Fools rising from their graves? I think the Night’s Watch needs something more than men, Ser Alliser. It needs some way to keep its sanity, from what I see.”
Laughter echoed once again, and Ser Alliser clenched his fists, visibly restraining himself, but determined not to back down.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” he insisted, now in a tone almost pleading, “these risen dead respect neither walls nor borders. We need support. The Wall is weakened, and if we don’t have men to reinforce it…”
Joffrey sat up slightly, a cold smile on his face, amused by the spectacle this man was providing his court.
“Men...” he pondered, with an expression of feigned consideration. “Let me see what we can do. Perhaps some men from the city dungeons, those who are of no more use... yes, I’ll send some of those to your Watch. They’re already dead to us, after all. And who knows, they may rise again as well? What do you think, Ser Alliser? A reinforcement that’s already familiar with death.”
Joffrey laughed heartily, as did the court around him, and a bitter irritation overtook Ser Alliser’s face, who found himself without alternatives.
“I will accept any men you can offer, Your Majesty,” he replied, his voice thick with restrained anger. “Because this threat chooses neither the strong nor the weak. When the time comes, all will fall, living or dead.”
Joffrey merely smiled, more interested in ending the audience.
“Very well, return to the Wall, Ser Alliser. Take our regards and those men to defend the realm from... the undead. Bury them deep enough; perhaps that will solve your problem.”
He clapped his hands, a clear signal that the audience was over, as if he had just dealt with nothing more than a humorous distraction for the court. Satisfied, Joffrey removed the crown from his head, setting it on the throne before rising. The weight of the day felt lighter with the metallic touch of the crown away from his brow. For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to Sansa, and he hoped that this episode wouldn’t be the last time he saw her eyes sparkling for him, but soon a familiar figure approached, interrupting his reverie.
His mother, with her impeccable expression and sharp eyes, smiled softly, reaching out to caress his arm.
“My son, if there are still subjects waiting to be heard, I could finish the petitions for the day,” she suggested, her voice gentle but loaded with implications. “I know you have other commitments.”
Joffrey met her gaze, his face now cold and his posture rigid.
“There is no need, Mother,” he said, drawing his arm back almost imperceptibly, yet firmly. His voice was low but carried a chill he hadn’t known he could use. “I know well how to attend to my duties.”
Confusion crossed Cersei’s eyes, which she attempted, unsuccessfully, to disguise as surprise. She seemed about to say something, but Joffrey had already turned his back, heading toward Tyrion. The echo of his footsteps reverberated through the great hall as he moved away, leaving behind his mother’s astonished look and the murmurs of the court about Ser Alliser’s words.
As he exited the hall, Joffrey strode confidently through the halls of the Red Keep, the echoes of his shoes resonating against the cold, silent stone walls. He was a young king, but now, more than ever, he felt the weight of intrigue and manipulation around him. As he advanced, he felt the presence of furtive glances—guards, servants, all aware of his power, though he knew they also watched, judged, and perhaps even scorned.
It didn’t take long for him to find Tyrion at the end of the corridor, analyzing the king with a slightly curious expression while crossing his arms. The dwarf bore his usual shrewd look, but Joffrey could see a hint of approval in his uncle’s eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Tyrion greeted him with a slight bow, full of irony. “I see you handled the burden of leadership well, especially with our dear Ser Alliser.”
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, observing his uncle with an expression of pride and disdain, but also of a certain recognition. He knew Tyrion was perhaps the only one in court who, despite his criticisms, truly understood the pressures of the crown. Even if his tongue was sharp, he had always been direct.
“Oh, yes, Uncle,” Joffrey replied in a tone he hoped sounded confident and superior. “That talk about walking dead... Ridiculous, isn’t it? But I gave him some men from the dungeons. Of what use are they here, after all?”
Tyrion nodded, with a brief smile.
“That was a wise decision, my young king,” said the dwarf. “Sending a few men costs us nothing, yet it maintains appearances and perhaps keeps that threat from the north from reaching the ears of the common folk as anything more than a ranger’s tale. But I must say...” Tyrion hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I noticed that you declined your mother’s offer to finish the audience. Was I correct in thinking our royal little lion is beginning to show his claws?”
Joffrey hesitated but decided he could confide something in Tyrion. After all, the dwarf always treated him as the true king, not as an impulsive, moldable boy as his mother did.
“Let’s just say I don’t want my mother interfering in all my plans, Uncle,” he murmured, crossing his arms, his voice low as if he feared the walls might listen. “She... she doesn’t like my closeness with Sansa. Sansa told me something yesterday that made me think. She said my mother wants to manipulate me, that it’s why she rejects our connection.”
Joffrey felt anger rise as he remembered Sansa’s words. The truth was he had always suspected his mother’s excessive zeal, the way she seemed to control him as a pawn in her personal game. Sansa’s suggestion had ignited a spark of distrust he had felt but never dared confront.
Tyrion frowned, considering what he had just heard.
“Sansa is more right than you realize,” Tyrion admitted, his tone serious, causing Joffrey to feel a slight chill. “Your mother has always been... protective, yes, but it goes beyond that. She doesn’t allow herself to trust anything she can’t fully control, and when she sees you moving closer to Sansa independently...” Tyrion sighed. “Well, that concerns her.”
For a moment, a heavy silence filled the air, a mutual understanding shared in the gaze exchanged between the king and his uncle.
Joffrey felt something close to insecurity. He was fully committed to protecting Sansa and keeping Cersei away from his matters with her, but the thought that his mother might indeed harm Sansa disturbed him. She was his mother, after all, the woman who had always told him he was a king, even before ascending the throne. But Sansa’s presence in his life made him question whether this devotion was sincere or merely another form of control.
Tyrion, perceiving the hesitation on his nephew’s face, spoke in a softer, almost understanding tone.
“Let me handle this situation with your mother, my king. Cersei hasn’t yet directed all her suspicion toward Sansa, but if your attachment to her becomes too evident, you can be sure that will quickly change.”
Joffrey considered the proposal, feeling a slight wave of relief. He knew his uncle had experience in dealing with his mother and in navigating the court’s intrigues. And if there was anyone who could keep Cersei away from Sansa and his own plans, it was Tyrion.
“Yes…” Joffrey nodded, a faint sense of satisfaction beginning to replace the doubt. “Yes, Uncle, do it. I don’t want her... harming Sansa or interfering in our affairs.”
Tyrion smiled, though his smile was tinged with something enigmatic.
“I’ll do that, my young king. Tonight, I’ll speak with our dear Cersei. And tomorrow, I’ll take over the task of hearing the day’s petitions and grievances in your place. I’ll make some decisions she will certainly disapprove of, but in doing so, your mother will have something to occupy herself with... and a target for her anger. Leave it to me.”
The weight on Joffrey’s shoulders seemed to ease. He felt as though he was finally taking control, seizing the reins of his own destiny, free from his mother’s manipulations. Moreover, the prospect of spending the day with Sansa, free from Cersei’s interference, seemed a prize worthy of a king.
“Excellent, Uncle. Excellent.” Joffrey displayed a satisfied smile, almost like that of a boy who had just won a complex game. “And as for your plan to distract my mother... you couldn’t have chosen anything more fitting.”
Tyrion gave him a mischievous look.
“Enjoy your day, Your Majesty. I’m sure Miss Stark will be more than pleasant company for the young and magnanimous king. A commitment with a red-haired beauty, I imagine, is not something to neglect.”
Joffrey let out a laugh, feeling a profound and unprecedented satisfaction. It was refreshing to hear his uncle acknowledging and respecting his desires and intelligence.
“Indeed, Uncle,” he replied, a condescending smile lighting up his face. “A very important commitment.”
With a slight farewell nod, he turned and walked confidently down the corridor, leaving Tyrion behind. He knew his uncle would handle the situation with his mother, and with that, a sense of freedom filled him, a strange euphoria he couldn’t completely explain.
***
Tyrion
In the quiet of the night, Tyrion walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, his small figure casting long shadows on the worn stones. A slight smile of satisfaction curled his lips as he approached his sister’s chambers. Meetings with Cersei always required a precise combination of caution and provocation; she was as volatile as heated wine, but Tyrion knew that for his plan, it was essential to maintain the mask of the conciliatory brother.
As he reached the ornate door, he heard the muffled sound of soft music echoing from within. Tyrion raised an eyebrow, surprised. He rarely found his sister surrendering to moments of relaxation, especially in times of tension. He signaled to the guard, who reluctantly opened the door, and entered the room with the familiar irreverence that always irritated Cersei.
Upon entering, he found Cersei reclining in one of the luxurious chairs in the chamber, her eyes half-closed while Lancel Lannister strummed a harp, a bit clumsily, but evidently trying to impress his lover and lady. The young knight seemed immersed in the task of pleasing her, and Cersei, at that moment, observed him with an expression mixed with pride and condescension.
Tyrion cleared his throat, breaking the spell of the music. Lancel stopped abruptly and looked at him, embarrassed. Cersei opened her eyes, shooting him a furious look.
“Brother,” she said with a sigh of disgust. “Should I assume you’re not here to appreciate a serenade?”
Tyrion curled his lips in a mocking smile.
“Oh, how could I miss the opportunity to hear young Lancel strumming the harp with such... sophistication?” He paused, feigning reflection. “…and grace?”
Lancel, clearly uncomfortable, looked at Cersei as if waiting for a sign to leave, but she didn’t give him permission. Instead, she dismissed him with a slight wave and an impatient look. The knight quickly got up, placing the harp on a table before hastily departing, relieved to leave the Queen’s brother’s company.
Once they were alone, Tyrion assumed a more serious posture, abandoning the sarcastic tone for a moment.
“I’m here to discuss urgent matters, Cersei.” He approached a table where a dark wine jug rested. He poured a generous serving into a glass and, carefully, moved to add a small envelope of powder he had kept in his belt. The powder, a substance he had acquired from questionable sources in the city, was colorless and odorless, perfect for today’s purpose. He stirred the glass subtly before handing it to his sister, who accepted it without suspecting a thing.
Cersei looked at him with a mixture of caution and boredom.
“What news could be so urgent it had to interrupt my evening?” She raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of the wine, her gaze still fixed on him.
Tyrion took a few steps around the room, settling into a nearby velvet armchair, his face now adopting a controlled expression.
“The matter, my dear sister, is that Stannis Baratheon has set sail,” he began, his voice perfectly measured.
Cersei raised her face, interested, though a crease of concern marked her brow.
“By the Gods…” she murmured. “Is he marching on King’s Landing?”
Tyrion restrained a smile, savoring the tension on his sister’s face.
“Not exactly.” He folded his hands over his stomach, enjoying the moment. “Luckily for us, good old Stannis is heading... to Storm’s End. It seems he decided to resolve the matter with his brother Renly before anything else.”
A glimmer of relief—and perhaps even joy—crossed Cersei’s face. She laughed, a laugh bordering on cruelty.
“What a fool!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Let them both kill each other; it would be the best thing for us. Two fewer Baratheons in the world. A disappointment to those flower knights so proud of their oaths and alliances.”
Tyrion allowed himself to laugh with her, a rare moment of lightness shared between the two. The thought of enemies destroying each other was a balm amid the pressure of armies and rumors that surrounded the Red Keep.
“Indeed, our position strengthens while they consume each other. But there are other... complications we must consider, brother.” Cersei paused deliberately, studying Tyrion’s expression before continuing. “Joffrey has been... far too close to Sansa Stark. He seems fascinated by her, which is dangerous.” Cersei made a face, her discontent clear.
“I don’t see it that way,” Tyrion said simply and with a blank face.
“I dislike the influence that girl has over him. Joffrey is impressionable, even if I love him as the king he is. He doesn’t realize that the Stark girl is merely waiting for a chance to wound him or betray our family.”
Tyrion frowned, taking a sip of his own wine as he weighed his choice of words.
“Perhaps, but Joffrey has his whims, as you know well. Forcing him away from Sansa might generate... resistance. He’s not one to take kindly to rejection, and if we try to intervene directly, I fear he may react poorly. Perhaps more intensely than any of us anticipate.”
The queen waved a dismissive hand, as though brushing away these concerns.
“Then what do you suggest, Tyrion? That we let that girl stay here and manipulate our king at her leisure?” She took another long sip of wine, still unaware of the subtle effects of the drug beginning to mix in her system. “Perhaps it would be appropriate to send her back to her brother.”
Tyrion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had anticipated this response and knew he’d need to maneuver her carefully.
“Sending her away now? Surely, that would enrage my nephew, perhaps more than you expect. And let’s not forget: these are delicate times. Sansa is a valuable asset. We cannot ignore that Joffrey clings to her as though she were a testament to his power, his kingship. If we try to separate them, we risk Joffrey directing his anger squarely at us. Or, more specifically, at you.”
Cersei pressed her lips together, clearly pondering her brother’s words, although the wine she continued to drink was beginning to make her a bit more relaxed and less calculating.
“Joffrey is young, malleable…” she murmured. “But you’re right; removing her abruptly could be risky. What do you suggest, then?”
Tyrion leaned forward, feigning a thoughtful air, though he knew exactly what he wanted to say.
“Give him the space to make his own mistakes, sister. The less we interfere directly, the easier it will be to steer his attention toward something… or someone… who might conveniently distract him. But if we tear him away from Sansa all at once, he may channel his fury directly toward us. Or, more precisely, toward you.”
Cersei’s brow furrowed as she considered this. She took another sip of wine, the drug’s effect now subtly dulling her sharp instincts.
“Perhaps you’re right…” she murmured, her eyes slightly unfocused. “But if anything happens, it will be your fault, Tyrion.”
He smiled and gave an exaggerated bow.
“With pleasure, my queen. I can be the target of your wrath, as long as Joffrey remains… manageable. After all, that’s what matters.”
He watched her as she relaxed further in the chair, her eyes slowly closing as the powder took full effect.
Tyrion walked up to the throne, each step echoing in the vast, cold room. He knew that many present looked at him with contempt, but it was in that contempt that he found room to maneuver. Ignoring the piercing gaze of the courtiers and emissaries around, he settled on the throne, feeling the discomfort of the cold metal against his body. There was no truly comfortable position for him there, but for today’s purpose, that was secondary.
Ser Cleos Frey, the emissary sent by Robb Stark, stood motionless before the throne, clad in modest armor. His eyes were fixed on Tyrion, his face pale and rigid. Tyrion studied him for a brief moment before speaking, his voice low but carrying the necessary coldness.
"Ser Cleos, I’ve heard of the terms proposed by your young king, the self-proclaimed King in the North, Robb Stark," he began, the ironic tone evident in the mention of the title. "Peace. We all want peace, don’t we? But the conditions Robb offers... I fear they are far from what the throne is willing to accept."
Ser Cleos remained silent, attentive to what Tyrion had to say. The dwarf’s hand rested on the cold arm of the throne as he continued, studying the emissary’s face with an intense gaze.
"The young wolf seeks the independence of the North and demands the return of Ice, the sword of Eddard Stark," Tyrion paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the room before continuing, "as well as his two sisters, Sansa and Arya Stark. Well, this doesn’t exactly sound like an offer of peace. It seems more like a series of bold demands from someone who has forgotten who truly holds the power."
Tyrion allowed a brief smile to form on his lips before continuing.
"Tell your king, Ser Cleos, that the Iron Throne has its own conditions. If Robb Stark wants peace, he must first remember his position." Tyrion took a deep breath, his voice taking on an even sharper tone. "King Joffrey demands the complete submission of Robb Stark, beginning with an oath of loyalty. Moreover, we want him to release Jaime Lannister immediately, no exceptions. In exchange, we offer something that I believe is both fair and appropriate: a prisoner exchange."
He paused meaningfully, his eyes gleaming with a touch of cunning.
"To ensure the good behavior of your king, we also require hostages. Young nobles from important Northern families must be sent to King’s Landing so we can ensure that Robb Stark’s oath is not just empty words carried on the wind."
A murmur passed through the crowd. Tyrion showed no signs of caring about the reactions of those present and continued firmly.
"As for Eddard Stark’s sword, Ice will remain here in King’s Landing. Returning it to the North would be an act of weakness, and the Iron Throne is not weak. The Stark sisters will remain under the protection of the crown, for sending them to the North would mean releasing two valuable tokens without any guarantees. Only peace can free them, just as the release of Jaime Lannister will. We also think that keeping Sansa and Joffrey’s betrothal intact might be a good start for a reconciliation between the families."
Tyrion knew his words would stir a mix of shock and indignation among the Northerners, but his intent was to make it clear that the Iron Throne would not be subjected to the desires and demands of a reckless young wolf. He leaned forward, watching Ser Cleos’s reactions, whose face now reflected a mix of anxiety and resignation.
"And, as a gesture of goodwill, we will send him the bones of his father. A sign of respect for Eddard Stark, who, despite his disloyalty, upheld his code of honor until the end. But Ice..." Tyrion allowed himself a small, ironic smile. "Ice will remain where it is, a reminder of who holds the power."
Next, Tyrion gestured for Maester Pycelle to approach. The old maester, hesitant, walked over to him, casting disapproving glances as if he already knew where this conversation was headed. Tyrion maintained his polite but firm tone.
"Tell the guards to prepare an escort. Vylarr and a sufficient force should accompany Ser Cleos to Riverrun so he can deliver our message to the North. A proper escort will prevent... any unfortunate incidents."
Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, his expression a mix of irritation and fear.
"Hm, Lord Tyrion... perhaps it would be wise to reconsider. These men were sent by Lord Tywin to protect Your Grace, the Queen Regent, and her children. Removing them from King’s Landing could... weaken the kingdom’s security."
Tyrion smiled, but it was a smile devoid of humor.
"Our security is well provided for, Maester Pycelle. King Joffrey has the Kingsguard, and we have the City Watch. I’m sure our guards can afford a little trip to Riverrun. After all, peace is the goal, isn’t it? And what kind of peace would it be if we didn’t send our emissaries with a proper escort?" Pycelle found himself forced to comply with Tyrion’s command.
Tyrion adjusted the weight of his cloak, making an effort to disguise the fatigue that had settled over him after hours in the throne room. The morning had been filled with tedious petitions: lords complaining about unpaid debts, merchants requesting new taxes, nobles whispering complaints about Joffrey’s misrule. But now, after sending Ser Cleos with the ultimatum to the North and dealing with the immediate urgencies of the crown, it was time to return to the games he most enjoyed—those where cunning and sharp words replaced lances and swords.
As he left the throne room, Tyrion crossed the corridors of the Red Keep and headed to a side chamber, where Littlefinger and Varys were already waiting. Petyr Baelish, with his elegant posture and calculated expression, leaned against the table, while Varys, wrapped in his loose robes, surveyed the room with a dangerous serenity. Both had the appearance of men prepared for an intense and possibly revealing conversation.
Tyrion paused at the doorway and observed them with his scrutinizing gaze, a slight smile on his face, as if he had just completed a move in a complicated game. Entering the room, he made a subtle gesture with his hand for the two to come closer.
"Good morning, gentlemen. I trust I haven’t kept you waiting?"
"Never would it be a wait, but an honor, Hand of the King," Varys replied with a soft smile.
Littlefinger merely nodded with a half-smile, his eyes alert.
Tyrion took a deep breath before speaking.
"Today, I sent Ser Cleos Frey with an appropriate escort," he said, carefully studying their reactions. "As you’ve probably guessed, this is not just a diplomatic courtesy. By sending some of the queen’s soldiers instead of our own men, I free up the crown’s army for... more advantageous purposes. A move to ensure that the Red Keep remains under our influence, while weakening Cersei’s position."
Littlefinger chuckled, a low, almost mocking sound.
"Clever, Lord Tyrion. The city will be as secure as before, while the queen will have to face the loss of her soldiers."
Varys, for his part, leaned slightly forward, his eyes fixed on Tyrion with veiled curiosity.
"Indeed, an elegant move. Weakening your sister’s personal force without leaving the city unprotected is a maneuver worthy of Lord Tywin himself," he murmured, his voice low and filled with admiration. "It’s fascinating how a man can turn a military necessity into a political play."
Tyrion smiled, pleased with the subtle compliment.
"These are difficult times, Varys. One must possess a certain... adaptability," he replied, his eyes glinting mischievously. "And of course, Cersei won’t exactly be pleased to find out that her security is... depleted. After all, what fun is a game without a little tension?"
Littlefinger crossed his arms, his face masking any immediate reaction.
"Curious, Lord Tyrion. I expected something less... direct," he said in a tone that sounded casual but was full of observation. "But I must admit, even in intrigue, the Hand of the King has clear preferences."
Tyrion let out a short laugh.
"Direct? Me? Rarely, Lord Baelish. Direct would perhaps be suggesting to my sister that she give me full control of the power, something I’m sure she would never consider. So, for now, I’ve chosen a strategy that is a little more... serpentine."
Littlefinger’s response was a slight raising of his eyebrows, a minimal reaction that did not escape Tyrion’s keen eyes.
"There’s something else you need to know." Tyrion paused, watching both of them closely. "I am aware that there is a traitor among us. Someone who, despite serving the realm, has been providing services of a somewhat... dual nature, let’s say."
Varys remained impassive, while Littlefinger’s gaze hardened slightly, and his hand tightened around the hilt of a dagger at his belt, almost imperceptibly.
"The thing is, in this court, everyone is loyal to someone... or something," Tyrion continued. "So, I’ve conducted a little... test, to check where the true loyalties of each of my counselors lie."
Littlefinger tilted his head, suspicious, but still maintaining his composure.
"I hope I haven’t been involved in some intrigue I would prefer to stay away from, Lord Tyrion," he said, his voice neutral.
Tyrion shrugged, feigning disinterest.
"Oh, of course not, Lord Baelish. Just something trivial, a kind of... game for friends. I’m sure your interests in King’s Landing are as secure as mine."
Littlefinger stared at him, suspicious, but said nothing more. For a man who kept one foot in each faction and calculated alliances, Tyrion’s insinuation was enough to put him on alert. Littlefinger knew that one wrong move could be fatal, and as the conversation ended, he gave a light bow before leaving the room.
Tyrion waited for the sound of Littlefinger’s footsteps to fade before turning to Varys, who was still looking at the door with a thoughtful expression.
"He worries too much about his position," Varys murmured. "A man who refuses to get involved in the kingdom’s intrigues is usually too tangled up in his own schemes to worry about ours."
Tyrion smiled at the observation.
"And that’s exactly why I like having you here, Varys. You see what no one else notices. And now... there’s one last detail I need to settle with you. Cersei still keeps her own guards, refuses to allow me to replace any of them, even for Jaime’s sake."
"And what would you like me to do, my lord?"
Tyrion leaned forward, his gaze shrewd.
"I need you to convince her that my proposal to swap guards is essential for Jaime’s release. Tell her that it’s a step to ensure her safety and that of her children. I want her to believe that her constant presence is necessary... so that she doesn’t think I’m trying to weaken her."
Varys nodded, understanding the intent.
"And what of the guards you wish to introduce?"
Tyrion smiled, pleased with Varys’s foresight.
"There will be four. Loyal men, but with a knack for violence that must be kept in check. They’ll have an ordinary appearance, but will be dangerous enough to, if necessary... correct the course of things, should the need arise."
Varys gave Tyrion a measured look.
"Clever, Lord Tyrion. Your sister may trust them to protect her brother, without realizing they are as loyal to you as they are lethal to her, should the need arise."
Tyrion nodded.
"Exactly."
After the conversation with Varys, Tyrion left the room, his firm steps echoing on the cold stone of the Red Keep’s hallway. He was determined to execute the next phase of his plan, something that required both precision and severity. In King’s Landing, where words weighed more than steel, loyalty was a rare and treacherous currency, and Tyrion knew that the old Maester Pycelle might be the subtlest and most deceitful of his sister’s spies. To ensure his own safety and establish his authority, Tyrion needed to extract the truth from the man, either by persuasion or by force.
Accompanied by Shagga and Timett, men from the Mountain Clans he had brought to the capital, Tyrion walked through the corridors. They commanded respect by their mere presence, their fierce glares and rustic attire a clear threat to the excessive and treacherous civility of King’s Landing. Shagga, with an axe resting at his waist and an intimidating posture, seemed eager for any opportunity for violence; while Timett, whose dark eyes burned with a cold, murderous calm, was the kind of warrior who acted before anyone could notice.
“Shagga, Timett, we have an appointment today. I’ll need you to be persuasive,” Tyrion said with a dry smile, seeing the men nod eagerly.
“To intimidate someone? Or to crush their bones?” Shagga asked, already drawing his axe from his belt, his expression impassive.
“Let’s hope it’s only the first,” Tyrion replied, though his voice held a note of satisfaction as he considered the alternative.
Upon arriving at Pycelle’s chambers, Tyrion ordered Shagga to knock on the door decisively, almost breaking it down. The maester was sitting at the table, surrounded by scrolls and glass vials, and his expression of surprise upon seeing the Hand of the King and his companions was both comical and revealing. Pycelle adjusted his long, graying beard, trying to hide his shock and distrust.
“Lord Tyrion, to what do I owe the… honor of your visit?” Pycelle asked, his voice trembling, though still attempting to sound respectful.
Tyrion didn’t bother to answer immediately. Instead, he surveyed the maester’s chambers with a sharp eye, his gaze lingering on the details with interest. Dusty alchemy books, dried herbs, vials of colorful liquids, and, somewhat suspiciously, vials of poison. Something about the environment exuded danger and, worse, a kind of skillful duplicity that only a man who had navigated the politics of King’s Landing for decades could possess.
“Maester Pycelle, I wonder if you would have a few minutes to answer some questions,” Tyrion said, his tone polite, though his gaze showed no sign of courtesy.
Pycelle hesitated but, with a slight tremor, nodded.
“I am at your disposal, Lord Tyrion. My loyalty is with House Lannister, as it has always been.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow and, with a gesture, signaled for Shagga to step closer. The warrior of the clans dragged his axe across the stone floor, the metallic sound echoing threateningly through the room.
“Oh, I have no doubt about your loyalty, Pycelle… only about your definition of loyalty,” Tyrion replied, his voice light but with a smile that left no doubt about his seriousness.
Pycelle recoiled slightly, his eyes narrowing with distrust and fear.
“I… I have always served the interests of your House, Lord Tyrion. All I have done over the years was to protect the Lannisters and the realm.”
Tyrion let out a short, dry laugh.
“Interesting. I suppose ‘protecting’ the realm includes conspiracies and betrayals? Tell me, Pycelle, how far does your loyalty truly go?”
Pycelle shot a cautious glance at Shagga, whose hand remained firmly on his axe. Tyrion realized that the old maester was trying to gauge whether there was any chance of convincing him of his innocence. For a moment, Pycelle seemed about to argue, but upon seeing Tyrion’s unyielding expression, he sighed, knowing he would have to give in.
“During Robert’s Rebellion…” Pycelle began, hesitantly. “It was I who facilitated Lord Tywin’s entry into King’s Landing. I thought… it was prudent… for House Lannister to side with the winners, to ensure the survival of the city… and of ourselves.”
Tyrion narrowed his eyes, leaning slightly forward.
“So you opened the gates for the sack of King’s Landing?”
The old maester shook his head, his expression uncomfortable.
“It was a… difficult decision. But I knew that if we opposed it, the consequences would be even worse. I thought that with Tywin Lannister on our side, King’s Landing would be safe. A necessary evil, Lord Tyrion. I did it for the crown… and for your family.”
Tyrion smiled, but it was a humorless smile.
“Fascinating how a man can justify any terrible act in the name of loyalty.”
Shagga stepped forward, the axe in his hands gleaming in the light. Tyrion, still not taking his eyes off Pycelle, gestured for the warrior to stay at the ready.
“And Jon Arryn?” Tyrion continued. “Tell me, what role did you play in his death?”
Pycelle’s face paled, and he pressed his trembling fingers into his long beard.
“Lord Tyrion, I was a… mere observer of events. Jon Arryn was too perceptive. He had started to… inquire about certain… questions of lineage. It was a risk… a risk we could not afford. Queen Cersei never gave me a direct order, of course, but her concerns were clear. He was a threat to her secrets and, by extension, to House Lannister.”
Tyrion leaned forward even more, studying Pycelle’s anxious expression and wrinkles with calculated curiosity.
“So you poisoned Jon Arryn at my sister’s behest?”
Pycelle shook his head, his voice trembling.
“Not directly… but I helped ensure the circumstances led to his death. It’s what I do, Lord Tyrion. My duty is to ensure that House Lannister’s power prevails.”
Tyrion nodded, a cold, merciless gleam in his eyes.
“In that case, it seems your loyalty is somewhat… focused, maester. It doesn’t extend to all of House Lannister, since I know you’ve been revealing parts of my plans to my sister.”
Pycelle raised his hands in a pleading gesture.
“Lord Tyrion, all I’ve done was to ensure that House Lannister continued to rule and that the realm remained safe. I couldn’t do anything other than what I’ve done. You must understand, please.”
Tyrion watched him for a moment, then gestured for Shagga to move forward, who advanced with the axe in hand.
“Let the gods judge your loyalty, Pycelle. Take him, Shagga, and make sure he’s locked in a dark and cold cell,” Tyrion ordered, his voice as hard as stone.
As Pycelle was dragged away, his pleas echoing down the corridor, Tyrion inspected the room. Among the vials and scrolls, he found a set of small vials marked with suspicious symbols, indicative of dangerous substances. It was a silent confirmation that the maester not only served the court with his counsel, but also kept a reserve of poisons, useful for serving different masters over the years.
As he left the maester’s chambers, Tyrion knew that although every move he made had a cost, he now held a firmer control over the court.
Chapter 6: Stabbed
Summary:
"I love her. And I hate it. I hate how she makes me feel, I hate how she occupies my mind, but... I can't help it."
Notes:
Good evening!
First of all and as always, I can't help but thank you for your kudos and comments, they do me a lot of good and make my heart warm 🥹
Secondly, ATTENTION ⚠️:
This chapter is heavy and there are scenes of torture. I'd like to warn more sensitive people.
Finally, happy reading! 🤩
Chapter Text
Tyrion
The knock on the door woke him from a light nap, still fully dressed, with a half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. Seeing the darkness beyond the window, he estimated it was well past midnight.
"Who is it?" he asked in a hoarse voice, barely concealing his irritation.
"Ser Lancel Lannister," came the reply—young, confident, and annoyingly impatient. Tyrion could almost smell the arrogance of a newly-knighted man seeping through the wood of the door.
Tyrion sighed, using the table to pull himself upright. Does Lancel think he'll catch me groggy and slow-witted at this hour? he wondered. No, Lancel rarely thinks; this is Cersei’s doing. His sister would be disappointed. Even while lying down, Tyrion often worked late into the night, reading by the flickering light of a candle, studying Varys’s informant reports and poring over Littlefinger's ledgers until his eyes ached and the flames blurred. A brief nap was all he allowed himself.
"Come in, cousin."
The door opened, and Lancel entered, clad in perfectly tailored green and gold silk, his chest puffed like a strutting rooster. The new sword at his waist was ostentatiously displayed, but to Tyrion, it was obvious the boy could barely wield it.
"Apologies for disturbing your evening, my lord," Lancel began, though his tone lacked any hint of remorse. He shut the door behind him, crossing the room with deliberate strides.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"At this hour? I trust you bring good news—or at least something more interesting than your wardrobe."
"The Queen Regent, my lady Cersei, demands that Grand Maester Pycelle be released immediately."
The word demands made Tyrion smile.
"Demands? Such an unpleasant word to use with the Hand of the King."
Lancel did not flinch, though his eyes narrowed slightly.
"She also orders that Ser Jacelyn Bywater be punished for disobeying her instructions."
Tyrion tilted his head, regarding his cousin like a cat observing a mouse that had wandered into its trap.
"Fascinating. The Queen has been busy tonight, it seems. And what exactly did Ser Jacelyn do to warrant such punishment?"
Lancel hesitated.
"He... he refused a direct order."
Tyrion chuckled dryly.
"A direct order to release the Maester, I presume."
Lancel’s face twisted, but he stood firm.
"My lady considers it treason."
"Of course she does. And I assume she sent you here to impress upon me the gravity of the situation?"
"I’m not here to debate, my lord. I am merely delivering her words."
"How convenient for you," Tyrion murmured, stepping closer. Small though he was, Tyrion knew how to command a room when he chose to, and Lancel, despite his attempt at composure, shifted back slightly. "Tell me, cousin, how is my dear sister?"
"The same as always."
"And you? The night suits you, Lancel—or perhaps it’s something else that brightens your complexion."
Lancel clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Tyrion smiled, a cold and calculating smile.
"Ah, Lancel, you must learn that the court is a place of intrigue and secrets. And I am a man who likes to know everything. Including what happens between you and Cersei."
The effect was immediate. Lancel’s confidence evaporated, and his complexion turned ghostly pale.
"I... I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Tyrion took another step forward, his voice low and brimming with malice.
"Don’t lie to me, boy. I know you’ve been warming her bed while Jaime is away. And no, don’t make me start describing how I know."
Lancel opened his mouth to protest, but no words came.
"More impressive still is your bravery—or perhaps your stupidity," Tyrion continued. "Lying with your own cousin while your other cousin, the King, sits on the throne. Have you ever considered what Joffrey might do if he found out?"
"He... he’ll never know!" Lancel finally stammered, regaining his voice.
"No, he won’t," Tyrion whispered, his tone a deadly promise. "Not if I keep my mouth shut."
Lancel blinked rapidly, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
"What do you want from me?"
Tyrion’s smile widened.
"Information. And loyalty. From now on, you will tell me everything Cersei plans—every order she gives, every word she whispers. You will be my eyes and ears in her chambers."
"That’s treason!"
Tyrion laughed.
"More treasonous than lying with the King’s wife and helping to kill him? Yes, Lancel, I know about the strong wine you delivered to Robert during that hunt. I imagine Cersei’s open legs were a convincing reward, but perhaps not worth your head."
Panic flooded Lancel’s eyes.
"I... I had no choice!"
"You have a choice now, cousin. Work for me, or face the fate that inevitably awaits you."
For a moment, Lancel stood frozen, his lips trembling. Then, he lowered his head.
"Whatever you ask of me, my lord, I will do."
Tyrion stepped back, satisfied.
"Excellent. Now, as for Pycelle... tell Cersei that I will release him. But he will not return to the council."
Lancel looked at him, confused.
"That will enrage her."
"Then tell her I’m reconsidering. Let her think she’s won."
Lancel nodded slowly, his shoulders sagging.
"And one more thing," Tyrion added, his voice sharp. "Regarding your... relationship with Cersei. Avoid complications. I trust I don’t need to elaborate."
Lancel swallowed hard.
"I never spill my seed in her."
"Good to hear."
With that, Lancel gave an awkward bow and left the room, leaving Tyrion alone with his thoughts.
He poured himself another goblet of wine, staring into the dark liquid as if he might glimpse the future in its depths.
"Poor Lancel," he murmured to himself. "A pawn in a game he doesn’t understand. Cersei will use him until he’s of no further use, and when Jaime returns... well, I hope he’s far enough away not to feel the edge of my brother’s blade."
But for now, Lancel was useful. And to Tyrion, utility was more valuable than any bond of blood.
Tyrion sat for a long moment, the creaking of the wooden chair echoing through the empty room. The silence felt heavier now, laden with the echoes of Lancel’s words and the looming shadow of Cersei’s machinations. The night enveloped him, but instead of offering rest, it seemed to invite reflection.
He clicked his tongue, irritated with himself.
“Damn it,” he muttered, rising laboriously from the chair. “This isn’t the time for sentimentality, Lannister.”
His bare feet met the cold stone floor as he crossed to the table where a pitcher of wine awaited. He poured himself a goblet, drinking deeply, allowing the warmth of the liquid to spread through his chest and chase away the exhaustion threatening to overtake him. This would have been an ideal moment to sink into a bed, but Tyrion knew rest would elude him—his restless mind and the tangled web of intrigues surrounding him would see to that.
Opening the door with enough force to rouse Podrick from his nap on a nearby bench, Tyrion leaned out into the dim corridor.
“My lord?” asked the young squire, blinking in confusion.
“Wake Bronn,” Tyrion ordered firmly. “And have horses prepared. We’re leaving shortly.”
Podrick hesitated but dared not question him. With an awkward nod, he disappeared down the hallway.
Tyrion returned to his chambers to dress. The heavy cloak and embroidered collar reminded him of his station, but at that moment, he would have preferred the simple garb of a mercenary. He adjusted the dagger on his belt and checked the small vial of poison secured in its hidden compartment. Not that he expected to need it tonight, but in King’s Landing, it was prudent to be prepared for the unexpected.
By the time Bronn found him in the stables, the sellsword’s customary smirk was firmly in place.
“Going for a midnight stroll, my lord?” Bronn asked, tightening the strap of his sword belt.
“Something like that,” Tyrion replied, mounting his pony with some difficulty. “The moon is high, the stars are bright, and I’m in a foul mood. I need company.”
Bronn snorted but mounted without comment. The two rode in silence through the narrow, dark streets of King’s Landing, with Podrick trailing a few steps behind, looking nervous.
The city felt different at night—more feral in its misery. The alleys were heavy with shadows, and the whispers of the wind through the buildings seemed to carry threats. At one corner, they passed an old woman clutching a dead cat, her eyes vacant as she muttered to herself.
“A feast fit for kings,” Tyrion remarked bitterly.
“Better than what most get,” Bronn replied indifferently.
Tyrion pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Above them, the stars were faint, veiled by the smoke rising from chimneys and the ever-present pall of despair shrouding the city.
“My father always said ruling meant feeding the hungry and calming the restless,” Tyrion said, almost to himself. “It seems we’ve failed on both counts.”
Bronn shrugged.
“Maybe failing is what rulers do best.”
The warm glow of Chataya’s brothel finally came into view, a beacon of comfort amidst the city’s darkness. Chataya greeted them with her customary polite smile, her eyes keenly assessing her visitors.
“Lord Tyrion,” she said, inclining her head. “An honor to welcome you to my humble establishment.”
“Humble, you say?” Tyrion laughed, glancing around the luxurious interior. “If this is your idea of humble, I need to rethink mine.”
Chataya laughed with him but gestured them inside. The women in the lounge offered smiles and nods, some approaching with inviting looks.
“Perhaps later,” Tyrion said, dismissing them with a wave.
A blonde girl, Dancy, leaned in close, her perfume enveloping him.
“Are you sure, my lord? I could make this night unforgettable.”
Tyrion smiled but shook his head.
“My night is already promised to another.”
Dancy retreated but not without a final seductive smile.
As always, Tyrion pretended to retire with Alayaya. After ensuring the girl could continue her lessons in reading while he left, he slipped into the hidden passage at the back of the brothel that led to the mansion where Shae awaited him. Guards handpicked by Varys stood watch, their discretion assured.
Shae was asleep when Tyrion entered, the soft candlelight casting a golden glow on her face. He approached carefully, not wanting to wake her, but couldn’t resist running his fingers through her dark curls.
For a moment, he stood there, simply watching her. There was a peace on her sleeping face that contrasted sharply with the turmoil in his mind.
“My lion,” Shae murmured, still half-asleep, and Tyrion felt a warmth spread through his chest.
He leaned down, kissing her gently, but soon his need overwhelmed him. His lips trailed lower, and he kissed her deeply, eliciting soft moans of pleasure that turned into sighs as he parted her legs and took her.
The moment was brief but intense, and when it was over, Shae wrapped her arms around him, calling him her lion again. Tyrion closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the world lift—if only for a few minutes.
He knew it was foolish to think Shae was different, but for now, he chose not to question the fragile comfort she offered.
When Shae drifted back to sleep, Tyrion lay beside her, staring at the ceiling. Power, intrigue, purchased love—all of it was his, but at what cost? The game was far from over, and the morning would bring new challenges.
“All I ever wanted,” he murmured to himself.
But even as he said it, a voice within whispered that the price would only climb higher.
***
Sansa
The morning light filled the breakfast hall with a soft, golden glow, reflecting off polished silverware and pristine porcelain. The table was set with an intimidating display of luxury: fresh breads of varying shapes, some sprinkled with poppy seeds, others filled with dried fruits; a platter of thinly sliced smoked ham; aromatic cheeses, ranging from creamy to firm, carefully arranged; and at the center, a large bowl of fresh fruits—grapes, pomegranates, and delicately sliced apples. A small kettle steamed beside an assortment of aromatic teas, while crystal glasses held pomegranate and orange juices.
Sansa Stark sat at the table, maintaining the impeccable posture her mother had taught her. Across from her, King Joffrey, dressed in green velvet embroidered with the golden lion of House Lannister, appeared to be in excellent spirits. He smiled more than usual, his expression lighter, almost pleasant.
“I heard that Ser Dontos tripped on the stairs again last night,” Joffrey laughed, his voice tinged with scorn. “He must have drunk enough to drown half of the Red Keep.”
Sansa responded with a restrained smile, her eyes lowered in apparent modesty.
“Perhaps he simply has clumsy feet, Your Grace.”
Joffrey leaned forward slightly, savoring the exchange.
“Or perhaps he keeps drinking too much, and I should consider making him choke on wine again.”
Sansa held her breath for a moment, hiding any reaction that might betray her caution.
“Surely Your Grace knows best.”
The truth was that Sansa felt an odd sense of calm that morning. Sitting with Joffrey, she almost felt at ease. There was something in the tone of their conversation, the playful remarks they exchanged about the court, that made her forget, for a fleeting moment, who he truly was. Not that she would ever admit this, not even to herself.
Joffrey picked up his glass of pomegranate juice and raised it slightly, as though toasting.
“To quieter days, Lady Sansa. The realm needs peace.”
She raised her own glass, replying with a timid smile.
“May the Seven bless Your Grace with the wisdom to bring it.”
As their goblets clinked, Joffrey’s gaze drifted to her hand, resting elegantly beside her plate. Without warning, he reached out and brushed his fingers over her knuckles—a surprisingly gentle gesture. The touch sent a shiver through Sansa, not of revulsion, though she hated to admit she didn’t entirely dislike it.
“I miss our dinners together, Sansa,” Joffrey said, his voice dropping as though sharing a secret. “The last few days have been so busy… I’d like us to dine together tonight. In my chambers. Just the two of us.”
Sansa blinked, surprised by the invitation. Her mind raced. Joffrey seemed genuine, but what was he expecting of her? The thought unsettled her. Did he want more than kisses? She wasn’t sure if she was prepared for that.
Joffrey misinterpreted her hesitation.
“Don’t worry about gossip, Lady Sansa. It will be very discreet.”
She lowered her eyes, battling her nerves.
“As Your Grace wishes.”
Joffrey’s smile broadened, almost too satisfied. He released her hand and leaned back in his chair, but his gaze soon fixed on something behind Sansa. Following his line of sight, she saw Queen Cersei standing at the entrance, watching them. The Queen’s expression was hard to read, a mix of disapproval and something akin to fury.
Sansa immediately rose, curtsying deeply.
“My Queen.”
Joffrey stood as well but did not bow. He merely nodded, a casual gesture calculated to display his superiority.
“Mother, join us. Unfortunately, I must leave. The affairs of the realm call.”
Cersei inclined her head in acknowledgment and moved toward the table as Joffrey turned back to Sansa. He took her hand once more, this time pressing a lingering kiss to her fingers.
“Until tonight, Lady Sansa.”
Then he turned and left, offering a curt “Mother” to Cersei before disappearing down the corridor.
Cersei took the chair Joffrey had vacated. For a moment, silence hung between the two women. The Queen poured herself a cup of tea, her eyes on the liquid as though organizing her thoughts.
“You’re looking less pale these days, Lady Sansa. And appearing... happier,” Cersei commented, her voice laced with subtle irony.
Sansa forced a smile and replied carefully.
“I am glad that the King and I are getting along better, Your Grace.”
Cersei raised her eyes, studying Sansa with a gaze that seemed to pierce through her.
“Getting along better, indeed. It seems he’s falling for your manipulation.”
Sansa feigned shock, shaking her head in denial.
“I would never manipulate the King, Your Grace.”
Cersei’s smile was empty, devoid of any humor.
“I’m not sure how Joffrey believes you’ve stopped loving your family.”
Sansa kept her expression neutral, though her heart raced.
“The King knows I miss them. I don’t hide that, but my loyalty is to him.”
The admission drew a cold, cutting look from Cersei. She murmured, more to herself than to Sansa:
“Worse than I thought. If he lets you say openly that you miss your family and doesn’t reprimand you…”
Sensing an opportunity to defend herself, Sansa replied in an almost humble tone:
“We are trying to make things work.”
The Queen fixed her gaze on Sansa, as though she could poison her with a look. After several tense moments of silence, she rose from her seat.
“Be careful, girl.”
The tone was lethal, a threat disguised as advice. Cersei left, her footsteps echoing across the marble floor.
Sansa took a deep breath, adjusting herself in her chair. The Queen should be careful, she thought. The game Sansa was learning was dangerous, but she knew that to survive, she had to play it better than anyone else.
After breakfast, Sansa retreated to her chambers. Her room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon as she ran her fingers delicately over the silks Joffrey had gifted her. The fabrics were rare and expensive, the colors chosen with what might be interpreted as care: blue like the skies of King’s Landing on its finest days, gold like the sun that lit its gardens. Sansa wanted to believe, for one fleeting moment, that these choices had been made with her in mind. But then doubt crept in, slow and insistent, eroding any thought of kindness.
Joffrey had changed, certainly, but Sansa could not bring herself to believe the change was so profound.
Still, she allowed herself to spend the afternoon sketching designs and working with her seamstresses on adjustments. It was a task she enjoyed; it gave her a sense of control in a world where she commanded so little. Time slipped away amidst the embroidered lines, the needles gliding through fabric, and the murmurs of her maids. For a brief period, she forgot Joffrey’s eyes and the memories they evoked.
But as she lifted her gaze to the window and saw the sun dipping lower in the sky, the anxiety returned. The evening awaited, and so did the King.
And if he wanted more than kisses?
The thought struck like a spark, quick and painful, igniting a trail of fear and revulsion. Joffrey wouldn’t take her maidenhood before the time; she knew that. He needed the ceremony, the pomp, the audience. But Sansa also knew his desire to humiliate burned constantly within him, and there were no clear limits to his cruelty. He might want to see her embarrassed, uncomfortable, force her to endure touches she didn’t want, words that cut like knives.
The dress she chose would have to be perfect. Sansa could not afford to appear vulnerable.
When her maid arrived, Ser Arys Oakheart was already at the door, waiting with the patience of a knight who understood the nature of duty. The young lady removed her dress and stepped into the steaming bath, scented with rose and lavender oils. Sansa sank slowly into the water, letting the warmth soothe the tension in her muscles but not in her mind.
As her maid scrubbed her skin with soft sponges, Sansa watched the droplets of water slide down her arms, gleaming under the candlelight. In that moment, she seemed like someone else—clean, adorned, cared for like a porcelain doll.
“The King will be enchanted,” the maid murmured as she worked the oils into Sansa’s hair, combing it delicately.
Sansa closed her eyes and tried to believe it.
When she emerged from the bath, she selected the light blue silk gown, cinched at the waist with a golden ribbon that accentuated her figure. The long sleeves, embroidered with silver flowers, swayed gently as she moved. A sapphire necklace rested on her collarbone—a gift from Joffrey that now seemed to weigh more than it should. Her hair was brushed until it gleamed like polished copper, styled into a simple yet elegant braid framing her porcelain-like face.
Sansa looked at herself in the mirror, forcing a smile. She needed to believe she was strong, even when the truth felt so far away.
When she stepped out, Ser Arys bowed respectfully.
“You are radiant, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa responded with a timid but grateful smile. His words, at least, seemed sincere—something rare in King’s Landing.
They walked through the torch-lit corridors, Ser Arys’s steps echoing firmly beside the softer tread of Sansa’s shoes. As they neared Joffrey’s chambers, the silhouette of Sandor Clegane emerged from the shadows, a constant reminder of the ever-present danger the Hound represented. He leaned against the wall, his slouched posture contrasting with the intensity of his gaze.
As they reached the door, Sandor stepped forward, blocking the way.
“The little bird won’t be singing tonight,” he said, his gravelly voice laden with sarcasm.
Ser Arys frowned.
“The King is expecting Lady Sansa.”
Sandor gave a crooked, dark smile.
“He was. Until he found more… entertaining company.”
Sansa’s eyes widened, not immediately understanding.
“What do you mean?” she murmured, her voice low like a strand of silk about to snap.
Sandor leaned closer, as though savoring the impact of his words.
“The King is busy with a whore in his chambers.”
For a moment, Sansa’s world seemed to stop. The shock left her paralyzed, her lips parted in disbelief. Sandor’s words were like a dagger, and his smile was the salt rubbed into the wound.
“That can’t be…” she whispered, but the Hound’s look left no room for doubt.
“Did you expect loyalty from the King before marriage, little bird? That’s naïve.”
The words hit her like a wave, toppling any hope she had dared to nurture. Humiliation burned. She knew Joffrey had planned this, every detail calculated to hurt her. And the worst part was, it worked. Why had she allowed herself to feel even a shred of affection for him again?
Sansa lifted her chin, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat.
“Ser Arys, please take me back to my chambers,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the storm raging inside her.
Ser Arys hesitated, his eyes full of pity. He guided her back, but with every step, Sansa felt the weight of shame, anger, and pain pressing down on her. She fought to hold back tears, but as they turned the corner, her eyes stung, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.
Ser Arys stopped, pulling a handkerchief from his belt.
“Don’t cry, my lady,” he said gently. “The King is young. He doesn’t understand…”
His words felt as hollow as Joffrey’s gestures, but Sansa accepted the handkerchief, letting her tears fall while Ser Arys stared at the ground, uncomfortable.
It was then that they heard light footsteps echoing in the corridor. When Sansa looked up, she saw Tyrion Lannister approaching, his expression shifting to something between concern and anger as he noticed her state.
“My young lady, what happened?” he asked, his voice low but tense.
Sansa hesitated for a moment but decided to use this.
“Your nephew…” she began, letting her hurt spill out. “He arranged a dinner with me. But when I arrived, I found him with a… a woman in his chambers.”
Tyrion’s eyes widened, his indignation clear.
“He did that?”
Sansa didn’t reply. She simply closed her eyes, allowing more tears to fall. Tyrion seemed at a loss for a moment, but before he could say anything, Sansa turned to Ser Arys.
“Let us go. I wish to speak of this no more.”
As she walked back, her sorrow was genuine, but Sansa began to reshape it. Every tear she shed became a weapon, every pang of pain a reminder that she could not surrender. She would learn to play Joffrey’s game. She would let him see and hear of her pain, think he held complete control over her. Part of it was true, though no matter what Sansa felt, she would never fully give herself to him again. And if the gods were good, she would root out the small feelings for him that had grown once more.
***
Joffrey
Joffrey Baratheon strode through the halls of the Red Keep, his steps sharp and determined, his boots echoing off the stone floors. The day had been excruciating, filled with supplicants and nobles spilling their grievances in the throne room. Rarely did he hear anything worth his time. Between petitions for lands and complaints about taxes, the only thing keeping him focused had been the thought of dinner with Sansa.
Sansa.
The memory of her was like a thread tugging at the edges of his mind, though he would never admit it aloud. Her blue eyes, as clear as the summer sky, her voice soft and musical—it infuriated and captivated him in equal measure. It wasn’t just desire, though he yearned to touch her more than he dared to dream. It was something deeper, something he hated naming, something that made him lose focus even while seated upon the Iron Throne.
Reaching his chambers, he motioned to Ser Arys Oakheart.
“Wait for Sansa at her door. Ensure she arrives here safely.”
Ser Arys inclined his head.
“As you command, Your Grace.”
Joffrey entered his room, slamming the door shut behind him, already pulling off the heavy, embroidered cloak he wore. He headed straight for the washbasin, where warm water had been prepared. The bath was quick but sufficient to wash away the grime of the day. Emerging with his skin still damp, he donned a crimson silk robe that hung loosely over his frame.
When he returned to his chamber, he froze.
A woman lay sprawled across his bed.
She was partially covered, but the way the fabric clung to her curves left little to the imagination. Her dark brown hair cascaded over the pillows, and her eyes gleamed with a mischievous light he recognized all too well.
“Who are you?” Joffrey demanded, his voice firm but low.
The woman smiled, tilting her head coquettishly.
“Beatrice, my King.”
His frown deepened.
“What are you doing in my chamber?”
She rose slowly, the fabric slipping from her body as though choreographed.
“A gift, Your Grace,” she said, her voice melodious, almost a whisper. “For your pleasure.”
Joffrey took a step back, his suspicion mounting.
“Who sent you here?”
Beatrice smiled again, her expression at once innocent and provocative.
“I cannot say, my King. I was only instructed to ensure you were… well cared for tonight.”
He knew Sandor Clegane, the Hound, wouldn’t have allowed her through without explicit orders from someone. If she was here, someone with power had orchestrated this. She took another step toward him, reaching out to trace her fingers along his chest. Her touch brushed the edge of the robe that barely covered him, and he shoved her hand away roughly.
“Do not touch me.”
Beatrice laughed softly, as if he were a child to be pacified. Joffrey’s mind raced, unbidden thoughts of Sansa flickering like a candle in a storm.
“You’re difficult to believe as only sixteen. So strong, so tall, so... manly.”
For an instant, Joffrey felt a heat rise in him, but Sansa’s face burst into his thoughts, scattering every other image. His irritation surged. He stepped back again, his expression hardening.
“Get out.”
Beatrice didn’t move.
“Not without being claimed by the King,” she replied, her voice now firm, almost daring him.
Joffrey ran a hand through his hair, feeling his irritation boil into fury. Beatrice was beautiful, undeniably so, but she wasn’t Sansa. The sight of her in his bed, offering herself so readily, felt grotesque compared to the grace and untouchable allure of his betrothed.
“Leave now, or…”
Before he could finish, voices echoed from beyond the door. He immediately recognized Sandor Clegane’s gruff tone and another sharper, more insistent voice—Tyrion.
“Open this door!” Tyrion bellowed.
Joffrey turned sharply, storming to the door and throwing it open. Tyrion stood in the hallway, his face as dark as a storm cloud, while the Hound observed with a crooked smirk.
“What is the meaning of this?” Joffrey demanded, crossing his arms.
Tyrion brushed past him, stepping into the room without hesitation. His gaze landed on Beatrice, now clutching the sheets to cover herself, and then returned to Joffrey, his expression a mix of exasperation and fury.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tyrion snapped, jabbing a finger at him.
Joffrey blinked, genuinely confused.
“What are you talking about?”
Tyrion snorted.
“Don’t play coy. You arranged a dinner with Sansa, only for her to find this… spectacle waiting in your chambers. What were you thinking, trying to humiliate her like this?”
The accusation hit Joffrey like a slap.
“I… what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Tyrion said, his words as sharp as knives. “She left here crying. Crying, Joffrey. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get that girl to trust you again? And now, this!”
Joffrey felt something crack within him.
“Sansa… cried?”
Tyrion’s bitter laugh was devoid of humor.
“She cried, yes. Though she tried to maintain her dignity, as a lady should.”
Joffrey barely heard his uncle’s words. Sansa’s face filled his thoughts—her eyes shining, her hesitant but real smiles—and now, tears streaking that same face, tears he had caused. The image didn’t bring the pleasure it might have once.
“I…” Joffrey began, but his voice faltered.
Tyrion waited, watching.
“I didn’t do this,” Joffrey said finally, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t send for this woman.”
Tyrion arched a skeptical brow.
“Then what is she doing in your bed?”
“I don’t know!” Joffrey shouted, his frustration spilling over. “I… I would never…”
Tyrion crossed his arms.
“And why not? Why would the great King Joffrey Baratheon suddenly grow a heart?”
Joffrey’s rage exploded.
“Because I love her, damn you!”
The silence fell over the room. Beatrice's eyes widened, while Tyrion blinked, genuinely shocked.
"What?" Tyrion finally said, his voice low.
Joffrey took a deep breath, his hands trembling.
"I love her. And I hate it. I hate how she makes me feel, I hate how she occupies my mind, but... I can't help it."
Tyrion observed him as though analyzing him.
"You truly believe that."
"She’s already infiltrated my heart, uncle," Joffrey admitted, laughing bitterly. "While I’m still trying to find my way into hers."
Tyrion shook his head, looking torn between laughter and frustration.
"Well, this changes everything... Did anyone know about the dinner?" Tyrion asked, interrupting Joffrey's hesitation. "Anyone besides you and Sansa?"
The question lingered in the air like a sword about to fall. Joffrey thought for a moment, his eyes blinking rapidly. The dinner had been something intimate, planned to impress Sansa. Who could have overheard? Slowly, a single figure emerged in his mind like an indelible shadow. His mother.
Cersei might have heard about the dinner that morning.
The mere thought made him shudder. He knew her, knew her obsession with control, her reluctance to accept any decision he made on his own. She always treated him as if he were still a child, someone to be manipulated.
Joffrey clenched his fists, feeling the heat of anger burn through his veins. He turned his attention to Beatrice, who was watching him with a nervous smile. Without thinking twice, he crossed the room in long strides and grabbed her shoulders with force.
"Who sent you here?" he growled, shaking her lightly.
Beatrice tried to pull away, but Joffrey's grip held her in place. Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to stammer, her initial confidence vanishing like smoke in the wind.
"It was the Queen Regent," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible.
Joffrey's world stopped. He released Beatrice, feeling fury bubbling within him like a volcano ready to erupt. He looked at Tyrion, whose expression had grown serious.
My mother.
Tyrion sighed, rubbing his temples.
"This won't end well."
Joffrey felt his blood boil. He would confront Cersei, but first, there was something else he needed to do.
Tyrion hesitated, his sharp eyes like those of a cat watching the approach of a storm. He knew he had awakened something in Joffrey, something he wasn’t sure even he could control.
"Joffrey, think carefully. Don’t let your anger cloud your judgment," the dwarf said, his voice calm but laced with subtle urgency.
Joffrey raised his chin, the cold gleam in his eyes betraying the disdain he felt at that moment. He crossed his arms, standing like a king who had already made up his mind.
"Leave. I have matters to resolve," he said, each word weighted with the force of an unquestionable order.
Tyrion remained where he was, studying his nephew with an almost paternal expression. It was a cruel irony, Joffrey thought, that the dwarf, so ridiculous in appearance, dared to carry himself as though he were superior.
"Joffrey, listen—"
"Leave!" Joffrey roared, the shout echoing off the stone walls.
Tyrion raised his hands in surrender but not without casting one last meaningful look. He withdrew, his boots striking the marble floor with deliberate weight. When the door closed behind him, the room sank into a dense silence.
Joffrey turned slowly to Beatrice, who was now trembling, her face contorted in terror. For a moment, he observed her, tilting his head like a predator studying its prey. He approached her with slow, deliberate steps, until he was so close he could smell her skin mingled with the cheap perfume she wore.
He raised his hand and held her chin with unexpected gentleness, almost like a lover.
"You’re a fool, Beatrice," he murmured, his voice sweet in a way that made his words even more terrifying. "Unfortunately, you’ll have to pay for my mother’s poor decision to send you here."
Her eyes widened, and a sob escaped her lips.
"Please, Your Grace, I didn’t know… I didn’t know—"
"Shh..." He placed a finger over her lips, silencing her. "It’s not your fault. You’re just a pawn in someone else’s game. But still, you must be sacrificed."
He released her chin and, with a sharp movement, turned to the door.
"Hound!"
The sound of heavy footsteps preceded the entrance of Sandor Clegane, his imposing figure seeming to fill the space. His fire-scarred face was a mask of indifference.
"Find a piece of wood. Large enough for impalement," Joffrey ordered, as if asking for something as banal as wine.
Sandor hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes resting on the young woman cowering in the corner.
"Are you really going to do this, boy?"
Joffrey cast a cold, piercing look at him.
"Are you questioning a king’s order?"
Sandor shook his head with a sigh and left the room without another word.
While he waited, Joffrey sat in his chair, crossing his legs and watching Beatrice with the same casual interest he might afford an animal in a slaughterhouse. She crawled to the floor, tears streaming down her face as she murmured incoherent pleas.
Time seemed to drag until Sandor returned, accompanied by two guards carrying a long wooden stake. The wood was rough, uneven, but solid. Perfect, Joffrey thought.
"Place it here," he instructed, pointing to the center of the room.
The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Joffrey rose to his feet, his expression twisting into something close to fury.
"Obey, or you’ll pay with your lives!"
The men swallowed hard and did as they were ordered. The stake was positioned, and Joffrey turned to Beatrice, who was now screaming, begging for mercy.
"No! Please, don’t do this! I’ll do anything, anything!"
He knelt beside her, holding her face in his hands like a father consoling a child.
"Of course you will," he whispered, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
He stood and gestured to the guards. They grabbed her as she struggled and screamed, her desperate movements easily restrained.
"Impale her. I want to see it."
The guards hesitated again, but under Joffrey’s piercing gaze, they began the process. Beatrice’s first scream was so high and sharp that Joffrey almost felt a pang of pleasure. He sat down again, watching with an unsettling calm as the stake slowly pierced through her body.
The room filled with screams, moans, and the sickening sound of wood tearing through flesh and bone. Joffrey didn’t look away, not even for a moment. It was a masterpiece, he thought, a punishment that not only killed but made a statement.
When they finally finished, Beatrice was impaled, her body slumped, the stake entering through her rectum and emerging just below her shoulders. Her screams had dwindled into faint, rasping whispers.
Joffrey stood, walking over to her. He touched the stake lightly, as if inspecting the work of a sculptor.
"Impressive, isn’t it?" he said to no one in particular. "She’ll last for days like this, even with a stake through her body, simply because it avoids vital organs," Joffrey said, almost admiringly. It had been days since he’d tortured anyone, maintaining the image of a good man for Sansa’s sake. He was nearly starving for blood.
He turned to Ser Meryn Trant, who had helped bring the stake into Joffrey’s chamber.
"Summon my mother. Tell her to come here immediately."
Ser Meryn bowed and left, leaving the room once again steeped in silence.
When Cersei finally arrived, her sandals echoing against the marble floor, she stopped in the doorway, her eyes widening at the scene before her.
"Joffrey..." she began, but her voice faltered.
He watched her with a cold smile, like a boy showing off his favorite toy.
"Do you like it, Mother? You started all this."
Cersei averted her gaze, but he stepped forward, forcing her to face him. Joffrey crossed his arms, glancing at his crossbow hanging in the corner of the room, while Cersei remained frozen in place. The impaled prostitute still breathed, emitting low moans that reverberated through the chamber, a sound that made Cersei’s blood run cold. Her green eyes, always bright with determination, were now clouded with horror and disbelief.
"Look at her, Mother," Joffrey began, his voice low and dripping with cutting sarcasm. "Admire the masterpiece you helped create."
Cersei took a step back, but her son’s piercing gaze held her in place, as if she were bound by invisible chains.
"I... I don’t know what you’re talking about," she stammered, avoiding looking at the woman’s contorted body.
Joffrey let out a short, wintery laugh.
"You don’t know?" He tilted his head, his golden hair gleaming under the torchlight. "Don’t treat me like a fool, Mother. You sent this woman here. Did you think I would fall for your cheap trap? That I’d let you destroy the one shred of happiness I’ve managed to claim?"
Cersei tried to regain her composure, lifting her chin with feigned authority.
"I did no such thing. If this woman is here, it wasn’t on my orders."
"Liar!" Joffrey bellowed, his voice echoing against the stone walls. He grabbed the crossbow from the wall and aimed it at her for a brief moment before lowering it again. "Always scheming, always manipulating. Do you think I don’t see it? That I don’t notice how you try to control me, even now that I’m king?"
Cersei’s eyes burned with fury and, perhaps, a hint of fear.
"Everything I do, I do for you, Joffrey! I am your mother. Do you think you know what it means to rule? What it takes to protect the Iron Throne?"
"Protect?" Joffrey took a step closer, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Is that what this is? Sending a prostitute to the King’s chambers, hoping Sansa would find me and despise me forever?"
Cersei tried to hold her stance, but Joffrey’s accusation made her shoulders sag slightly.
"You’re obsessed with that Stark girl! She’s not trustworthy, Joffrey! She’s not worthy of you!"
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming.
"Oh, but you are? You’re worthy, Mother?" He laughed again, a joyless sound that cut like a blade. "Look where your so-called worthiness has brought us. This woman"—he gestured to Beatrice, now lying in apathetic silence—"is the result of your meddling. And do you know what’s most fascinating?"
Cersei didn’t respond, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Even impaled, even bleeding and rotting, she’s still alive." He approached Cersei, his voice dropping into a threatening whisper. "Two days. That’s how long they say someone can survive like this. Two days of endless agony."
"Stop this," Cersei whispered, her hands trembling.
Joffrey ignored her. He picked up the crossbow, loaded it calmly, and handed it to her.
"End it, Mother. Show some mercy."
Cersei stared at the weapon as if it were a venomous snake.
"I won’t do it."
"Won’t?" Joffrey tilted his head. "Then she’ll stay here. Two days, perhaps three. Every second will be your fault."
"You’re insane!" Cersei shouted, her control finally unraveling. "Mad and ungrateful! Everything I’ve done was to secure your position!"
Joffrey cut her off with a shout:
"And I’m warning you, Mother! If you try to manipulate me again, it will be you on that stake!"
The room fell into a deathly silence following the threat, broken only by the labored breathing of Beatrice. Cersei stared at him, horrified, unable to muster a reply.
Joffrey stepped back, running his hands through his hair, further disheveling it. He regarded her for a long moment, the tension between them almost tangible.
"If Sansa doesn’t believe me and doesn’t forgive me," he whispered in her ear, more to himself than to Cersei, "I’ll reconsider if your punishment will only be ending the agony you’ve caused."
Cersei’s hands trembled as she gripped the crossbow, watching Joffrey with panic, as though seeing him for the first time. Joffrey planted a small kiss on her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears.
He then began preparing to change his clothes—he needed to speak with Sansa and explain everything—while his mother stood there, deciding what she would do and reflecting on what her actions had done to the life of a woman who had nothing to do with their intrigues.
Chapter 7: The Art of Courtesy
Summary:
“It’s... a bit strange, isn’t it?” Cersei continued, tilting her head with feigned curiosity, her golden eyes fixed on Sansa. “Joffrey has always prided himself on being the first to hear of victories. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sparing you, or if he’s preoccupied with... other matters.”
Notes:
Good evening, everyone.
I'd like to apologize for not updating the fic last week, but if it's any consolation, I haven't had time to update any of the three I write 🤡
I finished this chapter on Tuesday but didn't have time to revise it, so I didn't post it yesterday. But since I already left you without a chapter last week, I decided to revise it and post it today, even though Thursday isn't its official posting day 😊
Thank you very much for the kudos and comments you keep leaving, they do me a lot of good! ❤️
Well, we have a new point of view here... Happy reading!
Chapter Text
Joffrey
Joffrey walked with long and quick strides through the dimly lit corridor of the Red Keep, the torches swaying as he passed. The young King's green eyes were fixed on the path ahead, but his heart pounded erratically in his chest. He barely noticed how his hands were clenched into fists or how the servants cowered at the sight of him. The cold of the night seeped through the castle’s stones, but the heat of his anger and frustration burned within him, leaving him oblivious to the weather.
It was the first time he had felt this way—vulnerable, uncertain. Tyrion’s words, the image of Sansa’s face marked by pain, and the silence he knew he would find behind that door... all of it gnawed at him. "She has to listen to me. She has to understand," he thought, repeating it like a mantra.
Reaching the door to Sansa’s chambers, he hesitated for a moment. This was something he never did: hesitate. His instinct told him to enter without knocking, to take control of the situation as a true King would. But the image of Sansa’s face in his mind stopped him. The icy stare, the courtesy as sharp as a blade. He took a deep breath, raised his hand, and knocked.
There was a brief but heavy silence. Finally, the door opened. Sansa Stark stood there, wrapped in a light blue velvet robe that contrasted with the fire of her hair. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen and red—clear signs that she had been crying.
Joffrey felt a pang in his chest, an unexpected weight. He hated seeing her like this now. Not in the way he hated the petulant expressions of his counselors or Tyrion's veiled disdain, but in a way that left him unsettled.
“Your Grace,” she said in a polished but hollow tone, bowing slightly in a formal curtsy.
"Your Grace," he thought bitterly. Not "Joffrey," as she had once called him during more intimate moments.
“Sansa... I... I need to speak with you,” he began, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. She closed the door behind him, and he turned to face her, searching for the words.
“There is no need, Your Grace,” she replied before he could continue, her voice as cold as Winterfell’s winter. “There is nothing to discuss.”
It felt like a slap. "There is nothing to discuss?" Everything inside him screamed the contrary.
“It’s not what you think, Sansa,” he said hurriedly. “I never... I would never bring a... a woman like that into my room. It was my mother. She did it to separate us.”
Sansa raised her eyebrows, her face expressionless.
“I would not dare question the actions of the Queen Regent,” she said softly, “nor interfere in Your Grace’s personal affairs.”
There was something in her tone—so distant, so controlled—that left him disarmed.
“You have to believe me, Sansa,” he said, stepping closer. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I...” He stopped, the words caught in his throat.
She tilted her head slightly, as if waiting. But her eyes, those blue eyes that had once glimmered with timid light, were cold, devoid of warmth.
“Whatever happened,” she said finally, “is no concern of mine. Your Grace does not need to justify himself to me.”
There was something in the way she pronounced "Your Grace" that infuriated him. He wanted her to call him by his name, to look at him as she had before, with admiration, or at least with anger. Now, all he saw was indifference.
“Don’t say that,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “I... I care about you, Sansa. I never wanted you to think that...”
She raised her hand to silence him.
“Please, Your Grace. It is late, and I am tired.”
For a moment, Joffrey didn’t know what to do. He was used to yelling, confrontations, manipulating and bending people to his will. But that cold courtesy, that invisible barrier she had raised, was something he didn’t know how to break.
He stepped back, looking at her. His jaw was tense, but he managed to stammer, “Good night, Sansa.”
She simply inclined her head, saying nothing, before closing the door gently.
.
Back in his quarters, Joffrey stormed in like a hurricane. The room seemed larger than ever, cold and empty. He stopped in the center, panting, his heart pounding furiously. His eyes fell on Beatrice’s lifeless body, still impaled on the stake, motionless.
His mother sat in a nearby chair, the crossbow he had given her resting in her hands, her gaze fixed on a distant point.
“She’s dead,” Cersei remarked, emotionless, not even looking at him.
Joffrey shot her a look of disdain.
“Do you think that matters now?” he snarled.
Cersei finally raised her eyes, and Joffrey saw something there he had never seen before: weariness. Perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps fear. He didn’t know, and in that moment, he didn’t care.
“You were the one who gave me the choice,” she replied coolly.
Joffrey stepped forward, pointing a finger at her.
“You did this. You ruined everything.”
Cersei rose, her gaze sharp as a blade.
“I did what was necessary. You are a King, Joffrey. You cannot let yourself be swayed by a girl.”
“She’s not just a girl!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the room.
Cersei raised an eyebrow, surprised by his outburst.
“Oh, no? Then what is she, my son?”
Joffrey hesitated, but not out of doubt. The words were there, ready to be spoken, but he felt the vulnerability behind them. Finally, he spoke, his voice a whisper laced with anger and something deeper:
“She’s everything I want.”
The silence that followed was palpable. Cersei looked at him for a long moment, then smiled—a small, cruel smile.
“Be careful, Joffrey. To want something so deeply only makes you weaker.”
He ignored her, turning toward the window. Looking out into the darkness beyond the walls, he had only one certainty in his mind: he needed to find a way to win Sansa back. No matter what it took.
And if his mother continued to interfere... well, he would find a way to deal with her too.
.
Joffrey sat at the long table in the private hall, the aroma of fresh bread and smoked meat filling the air. Despite the abundance before him, his appetite was nonexistent. The young King forced himself to chew on a piece of meat, but the taste seemed bland, his mind trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts.
At the head of the table, he watched Sansa from the corner of his eye. She sat a few seats away, dressed in a simple green satin gown, her red hair gleaming in the morning light. There was a superficial serenity in her posture, but Joffrey knew it was just that: a façade.
She ate little, her hands moving delicately as she tore a piece of bread into small bits. When she finally lifted her gaze to him, her blue eyes were as icy as they had been the night before.
“Your Grace, may I be excused?” she asked, her voice as polished as a freshly sharpened blade.
Joffrey swallowed the growing anger inside him. He wanted to shout at her, demand that she stop acting this way, but all he managed was a brief nod.
“Go, if you wish,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Sansa inclined her head in a slight bow, her face impassive. When she rose, her movements were graceful but lacked the lightness he had once admired. "She’s still upset with me," he thought, watching her leave the hall without looking back.
He felt a weight in his chest, a strange and uncomfortable sensation he couldn’t name. It wasn’t the same anger he felt when contradicted or challenged; it was something deeper, more personal.
As he pushed his plate away, the sound of firm footsteps echoed through the hall. He looked up to see Tyrion, his uncle, entering. Tyrion carried the same sarcastic expression as always, but there was something in his eyes that immediately alerted Joffrey: concern.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” said Tyrion as he climbed into a chair and settled with some difficulty. “It seems the morning is treating you well.”
Joffrey shot him a sharp look.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes, dwarf,” he replied, his voice laden with irritation.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem intimidated. He grabbed a piece of bread and began eating calmly.
“Sansa didn’t seem very cheerful either,” he remarked casually.
Joffrey’s face twisted.
“She doesn’t believe me,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “I tried to explain about last night, but she... she keeps acting as if I’m to blame.”
Tyrion chewed in silence for a moment, his eyes assessing his nephew.
“Women can be complicated, especially when they’re hurt,” he said finally. “But perhaps I have something that might help the situation.”
Joffrey leaned forward slightly, curious despite himself.
“What is it?”
Tyrion set down the bread and wiped his hands, his expression turning more serious.
“Bad news arrived this morning,” he began. “Stafford Lannister... well, let’s just say he wasn’t up to the challenge.”
Joffrey frowned, confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Stafford is dead,” Tyrion replied dryly. “Killed by Rickard Karstark, apparently. His army was ambushed by the Northerners at Oxcross.”
For a moment, Joffrey was motionless, as if he hadn’t understood the words. Then, anger erupted within him like a storm.
“Dead?” he exclaimed, rising abruptly from his chair. “How did this happen? Didn’t he have enough men?”
Tyrion sighed.
“Stafford gathered an army, yes, but they were inexperienced soldiers. Most of them barely knew how to hold a sword. And, of course, he made the mistake of underestimating the enemy. The Starks used a hidden path through the mountains to avoid the main roads. When they attacked the camp, Stafford and his men were completely caught off guard.”
Joffrey clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.
“He was an idiot,” he growled, his eyes blazing with fury. “A complete idiot. He shouldn’t have been leading even a group of children, let alone an army.”
Tyrion didn’t respond, merely observing his nephew with a cautious expression.
“I wish he were still alive,” Joffrey continued, his voice dripping with venom. “Just so I could kill him myself for this incompetence.”
He turned abruptly, knocking over a goblet of wine in the process. The red liquid spread across the table, but Joffrey seemed not to notice.
“This is a humiliation!” he shouted, pacing back and forth. “How could he let this happen? Now the whole realm will think we’re weak.”
Tyrion cleared his throat, trying to capture his nephew’s attention.
“Your Grace, I understand your frustration, but perhaps we can turn this to our advantage.”
Joffrey stopped, turning to face him.
“Turn this to our advantage? How?”
Tyrion shrugged, a sly smile appearing on his lips.
“A defeat like this can be spun into an opportunity if we play our cards right. You could use it to get closer to Sansa, for instance.”
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, still visibly irritated.
“How exactly does this benefit me and Sansa?” he asked, crossing his arms, skepticism etched on his face.
Tyrion leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table. He took a sip of wine before responding, savoring not only the drink but also the opportunity to measure his words carefully.
“Well, Your Grace,” Tyrion began, his voice laced with nearly imperceptible sarcasm, “rumors reach my ears as quickly as an archer’s arrow. I’ve heard that, in the past, when her brother Robb achieved a victory on the battlefield, Sansa...” He paused for dramatic effect, as if pondering the impact of his next words. “...suffered.”
Joffrey narrowed his eyes.
“What are you implying, dwarf?”
Tyrion shrugged, feigning casual indifference that only heightened the tension in the room.
“Nothing beyond the obvious. That you, in your wisdom and fervor for discipline, allowed Sansa to be... how shall I say it?... punished for her brother’s actions.”
Joffrey’s face paled slightly. He knew exactly what his uncle was referring to, but hearing it spoken aloud and in such blunt terms made something inside him twist uncomfortably.
“It wasn’t anything serious,” he tried to justify to himself. “Just a lesson.” But the memories came nonetheless, like an unwelcome specter: Sansa curled up, trying to hide the marks on her arms; her tear-filled eyes as she kept her head high, refusing to fully succumb to humiliation.
“That’s in the past,” Joffrey said quickly, but his voice lacked the firmness he intended.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile forming on his lips.
“Oh, so you admit it happened. That’s progress.” He paused, watching Joffrey with a calculating look. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
The King slammed his hand on the table, causing the plates and goblets to rattle with the impact.
“I said it’s in the past!” he snapped, trying to regain the authority slipping through his fingers.
Tyrion remained calm, nibbling on another piece of bread as if his nephew’s outburst was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“Of course, of course, Your Grace,” he replied with an infuriating softness. “I suppose, then, that you don’t intend to do anything similar this time? After all, Sansa must be... how shall I put it?... eagerly awaiting news of her brother’s victory.”
Joffrey clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.
“Of course, I won’t hit her!” he exclaimed, his voice rising a pitch higher than usual.
Tyrion leaned slightly back, raising his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender.
“Excellent. That’s already a start,” he said, before adding in a lighter tone, “See, Your Grace? You’re already acting like a true knight.”
Joffrey huffed, feeling both irritated and... ashamed. He didn’t like how Tyrion made him feel small, as though his past actions were something to be questioned. But what bothered him even more was the nagging thought that Tyrion might be right.
“And Sansa?” he asked, trying to sound disinterested. “What do you think she’ll make of this?”
Tyrion smiled, but not in a comforting way. It was a cunning smile, as if he knew exactly where he was stepping.
“Well, my lovely future niece will certainly be pleased with her brother’s victory. That’s inevitable. But she will also...” He paused, swirling the wine in his goblet as if searching for the perfect word. “...be afraid.”
Joffrey frowned, confused.
“Afraid? Of what?”
Tyrion shrugged again, but the glint in his eyes showed he already knew the answer.
“Of you, of course. She’ll expect that, as in the past, you’ll punish her for something she has no control over. But when that doesn’t happen... ah, my dear nephew, she’ll begin to see something new.”
Joffrey leaned slightly forward, intrigued despite himself.
“Something new?”
“Yes. Perhaps a glimpse of humanity,” Tyrion said with a sly tilt of his head. “Or at least enough to make her question her own feelings.”
The young King fell silent for a moment, Tyrion’s words reverberating in his mind. He thought of Sansa that morning—her cold courtesy, her eyes devoid of warmth. If there was a way to change that, even slightly, it would be worth trying.
“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted reluctantly.
Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast, a victorious smile on his lips.
“What a glorious moment for the realm,” he said theatrically. “Our young King not only triumphs on the emotional battlefield but also demonstrates growth as a leader.”
Joffrey rolled his eyes but, for the first time since hearing of Stafford’s defeat, felt slightly calmer. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to turn this disaster into something useful.
As he watched Tyrion turn his attention back to breakfast, a resolution began to form in Joffrey’s mind. He didn’t yet know exactly how, but he was determined: he wouldn’t let Robb Stark’s victory defeat him—not on the battlefield and certainly not in Sansa’s heart.
***
Catelyn
Catelyn Stark arrived at the devastated camp in the early hours of the morning, the gray sky casting an unsettling shadow over the clearing.
The guards' horses breathed heavily, and the salty smell of the sea was sharp, cut only by the bittersweet aroma of charred wood. In the distance, she could hear the metallic creak of Stannis Baratheon's war machines, hastily built using trees ripped from what had once been a vibrant grove. The twisted trunks and exposed stumps on the ground looked like open wounds on the earth.
Catelyn pulled her cloak tighter against the cold, relentless sea wind. She knew the stories of this place. Storm's End, the legendary castle that had withstood countless sieges and divine tempests, loomed ahead, imposing. It was hard not to feel the presence of something ancient here, a force hidden in the castle's black stones and the furious waves crashing against the unseen cliffs.
She thought of Ned. He had been here, so many years ago, leading troops alongside Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon. But his victory hadn’t been won with steel; it was Ned's diplomacy that had opened the castle gates without a single sword being drawn. She prayed she could do the same.
“Lady Stark,” announced one of Stannis’s soldiers, who had escorted her to the meeting site.
She nodded, masking her nervousness.
As she followed the soldier, her thoughts wandered to the tale she had often heard from Septa Mordane in her childhood. It was said that Storm’s End had been built by Durran, the first Storm King, who fell in love with Elenei, daughter of the sea god and the wind goddess. Their marriage had provoked the gods’ wrath, unleashing devastating storms to destroy every castle Durran built.
But Durran didn’t give up. It was said that the last castle, the one still standing today, was built with the help of Bran the Builder or perhaps through the power of magic. The walls were so thick that even the strongest winds couldn’t shake them, and the main tower seemed to defy the skies. Above all, Storm's End symbolized defiance and resilience—qualities reflected in the brothers now claiming the throne.
Upon reaching the clearing, Catelyn saw Stannis before he even spoke. He stood by a crude wooden table, his face as hard as stone. His crown of golden flames gleamed faintly under the overcast sun, and his banner—a burning heart encircled by his house’s stag—fluttered in the wind.
Beside him was Melisandre, the priestess of the Lord of Light. Her red hair flowed like a living flame, and her intense gaze locked onto Catelyn with disconcerting focus.
“Lady Stark,” Stannis said, his voice as rigid as his posture. He did not bow but inclined his head slightly—a gesture of acknowledgment, not respect. “I mourn the death of your husband. He was an honorable man.”
Catelyn swallowed hard, a chill running down her spine. There was no warmth in his words, no empathy. It was as though he were stating a cold, inevitable fact.
“Lord Stannis, my husband believed in justice. I hope you share that ideal,” she replied.
Stannis did not answer immediately. He seemed to weigh each word before speaking, as if they were arrows that could not miss their target.
“Justice, Lady Stark, is precisely what I seek,” he said, gesturing toward Melisandre. “The Lord of Light illuminates my path, and my claim to the throne is legitimate. Robert was my elder brother, and now, as his heir, it is my duty to ensure the realm has a King who will protect it.”
Catelyn drew a deep breath.
“That is why I came here, Lord Stannis. To speak of unity, not division. Both you and Renly command powerful forces. But the true enemy is not here, among brothers. It is in King’s Landing.”
Stannis narrowed his eyes.
“Brothers? There are no brothers in this dispute, Lady Stark. Renly wears a crown that does not belong to him and commands men who should be under my banner. The realm needs one King.”
Catelyn felt frustration rise in her chest but maintained her composure.
“And what good will it do to fight one another? Every sword raised against Renly is one less against the enemies threatening all of us. If you unite, you’ll have the strength to reclaim the throne. Divided, you risk both falling before ever reaching King’s Landing.”
“Renly has been offered terms,” Stannis replied, his voice low and dangerous. “If he swears loyalty to me, I will spare his life. But if he continues to act as a usurper, he will face the consequences.”
Catelyn glanced at Melisandre. The woman seemed to radiate unwavering confidence, as if she already knew the outcome of this meeting. It unnerved Catelyn deeply.
“I didn’t come here to debate lineage, Lord Stannis. I came because I believe there is still a chance to resolve this without bloodshed.”
But her words seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Stannis lifted his chin, looking toward the horizon where Renly and his troops were camped.
“I will not spill blood needlessly, Lady Stark. But if Renly refuses to bend, he will have blood on his hands, not me.”
Catelyn felt a knot in her throat. She had known convincing Stannis would be difficult, but his obstinance was beyond what she had imagined.
The sea breeze whispered constantly, as if the ocean itself awaited the morning’s outcome with bated breath.
Catelyn watched Stannis Baratheon walk away, his rigid posture leaving no doubt about his unyielding determination. But the sound of horse hooves and distant voices soon diverted her attention. Renly Baratheon’s arrival was announced by a vibrant parade of colors and voices—a stark contrast to his elder brother’s austerity.
Catelyn turned to witness Renly’s entourage approaching. He rode atop a magnificent chestnut stallion, his armor gleaming under the sun breaking through the clouds. His vibrant green cloak, embroidered with his house’s golden stag, was clasped by an ornate brooch—a reminder of the wealth and power he commanded. Beside him rode Brienne of Tarth, holding the stag-crowned banner of House Baratheon aloft, her height and presence nearly as imposing as Renly’s steed.
Renly smiled as he caught sight of Catelyn, and his smile seemed as natural as the wind that blew through the clearing. To him, there was no sign of war or tension. In Renly’s eyes, the world was a grand play, and he was its most beloved protagonist.
“Lady Stark, what a pleasure it is to see you!” His voice was jovial, almost musical, as he dismounted fluidly. “I trust my presence will make this meeting more... agreeable.”
The implication in his words—a clear jab at Stannis’s severity—did not escape Catelyn.
“Lord Renly,” she responded in a neutral tone, bowing her head slightly. “I hope this meeting brings peace, not discord.”
He laughed, the sound light and carefree.
“Peace will come, Lady Stark, but only when my brother sees the error of his ways.”
Catelyn maintained her impassive expression, but she couldn’t suppress a pang of skepticism.
Stannis reappeared as soon as his brother’s arrival was announced, flanked by his soldiers and the unmistakable figure of Melisandre, her crimson cloak billowing in the wind. The contrast between the two brothers was as striking as night and day.
Renly, in his typical exuberance, stepped forward to greet his brother, arms open as though expecting a warm reception.
“Brother, how wonderful to see you!” Renly said, smiling in a manner that seemed more mockery than genuine greeting.
Stannis stood unmoving, the scowl on his face an adequate response.
“This is no meeting of brothers,” he replied coldly. “I am here to demand your surrender.”
Renly feigned exaggerated surprise, placing a hand over his chest like an actor in a pantomime.
“Surrender? My dear brother, it seems you’ve forgotten that the realm has already chosen its King. It is hardly my fault it wasn’t you.”
Catelyn felt an impulse to intervene before the situation escalated, but she hesitated. She was here as a mediator, but how could one mediate when hatred and pride seemed etched into the bones of the men standing before her?
Stannis looked at Renly as though he were a petulant child.
“The realm does not choose its King, Renly. Succession is not a popularity contest. It is mine by right, and you know it.”
Renly laughed aloud, his laughter ringing across the clearing like an affront.
“Right? Oh, brother, it’s adorable how you cling to such antiquated notions. Who decides right, after all? The people who acclaim me as their King? The houses that march under my banner? Or is it the sword in your hand?”
Stannis’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Catelyn stepped forward, determined to inject some reason.
“Lords, you are both sons of Steffon Baratheon. You both have royal blood flowing through your veins. This dispute only benefits the Lannisters. They remain in King’s Landing, growing stronger while we divide ourselves.”
Renly turned to Catelyn, his smile dimming slightly.
“Lady Stark, your concern is touching, but allow me to correct one point: there is no we here. Stannis is not part of my realm, just as I am not part of his.”
Stannis turned to Catelyn, his eyes burning with a mix of determination and disdain.
“And you, Lady Stark? Have you come here to defend the Lannisters?”
Catelyn was taken aback by the accusation but maintained her composure.
“I came here on behalf of my son, Robb Stark, who seeks only to protect the North. But we know there can be no true peace while the Lannisters hold the Iron Throne.”
Stannis’s eyes narrowed as if weighing whether or not to reveal something. Finally, he lifted his chin, speaking with deliberate gravity.
“The Lannisters hold no legitimate claim to anything,” he said, his voice low but heavy with meaning. “The Iron Throne is occupied by a bastard.”
The clearing seemed to grow quieter, as though even the wind had paused to listen. Catelyn frowned, confused.
“What do you mean by that?”
Stannis raised his chin higher, as though the truth were a burden he bore with pride.
“Well, I believe your long journey has kept you from certain news, Lady Stark. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are not Robert’s children. They are the product of incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister.”
Renly, who had been distracted by a peach he had pulled from his pocket, began to laugh uncontrollably.
“Oh, brother, is that your grand revelation? Are you trying to convince me this is more than a tavern rumor whispered by drunkards?”
Catelyn felt a chill run down her spine. She recalled Lysa’s letter warning that the Lannisters had killed Jon Arryn. Had he discovered this before his death? Her mind began to spin with the implications. Joffrey Baratheon, a bastard? If true, the ramifications were devastating for all sides.
Catelyn’s mind raced. She thought of Sansa—her sweet, obedient daughter, who had dreamed of becoming a queen since she was a child. Sansa, now betrothed to a boy who, it seemed, was not a Baratheon but a Lannister—a product of an illicit, sinful union between siblings. The thought sickened her, but what troubled her more was the shadow this revelation cast over her daughter’s future.
Rumors had reached Catelyn's ears, vague yet persistent: Joffrey had no intention of breaking his betrothal to Sansa, even in the face of Robb's demands. It was an obvious condition her son would include in any truce with the Crown—Sansa and Arya must be freed at all costs. But why would Joffrey insist on keeping Sansa?
The logical reasoning was simple: an alliance with the Starks would strengthen the Lannisters’ hold on the North. Yet there was something else that gnawed at her. Joffrey, with all his cruelty and unpredictability, did not seem the type of boy to act out of mere pragmatism. He was driven by whims, by impulses. Could there be something about Sansa that fascinated him to the point of defying political logic?
Catelyn felt a weight in her chest as she considered the possibility. She had raised Sansa to be the perfect lady—graceful, obedient, refined, always with a sweet smile and a kind word on her lips.
But had that been a curse disguised as a virtue? Sansa had become so charming, so impeccable in her conduct, that now she was impossible for any man to relinquish. Even a monster like Joffrey seemed determined to keep her—not out of love but perhaps for the pleasure of possessing something so perfect, so unattainable to others.
“These are grave accusations, Lord Stannis,” Catelyn said, her voice firmer now. “What proof do you have to support them?”
Stannis pressed his lips together, but it was Melisandre who stepped forward, her voice resonating like a chant.
“The truth is clear to those who know how to see, Lady Stark,” she said. “The Lord of Light illuminates all.”
Renly rolled his eyes dramatically.
“The Lord of Light, of course. Always him. Perhaps you should light a candle for him, Stannis. Maybe he’ll send a raven with your proof.”
Stannis ignored the provocation, fixing his gaze on Catelyn.
“Jon Arryn discovered the truth. That is why he was killed. He saw what anyone can see if they look closely: Robert’s children do not bear the black hair characteristic of our lineage. They are lions, not stags.”
Catelyn reflected on Stannis’s words, recalling Joffrey’s features. She also remembered how Ned had been investigating something before his imprisonment. The connection began to form, but she fought against the urge to believe it immediately.
Renly, meanwhile, seemed more interested in mocking his brother.
“Brother, even if this were true, why would anyone care? Robert was a usurper himself, remember? Why can’t I be an ‘improper’ king as well?”
Stannis gripped his sword tightly, his eyes practically glowing with anger.
“Because you have no right. Because the laws of the Seven Kingdoms are not meant to be broken for convenience.”
Catelyn interrupted before the argument could escalate further.
“Lords, if there is truth in this accusation, it changes everything. But we cannot afford to be consumed by it now. While you fight amongst yourselves, the people suffer.”
Stannis glared at her for a moment before turning back to Renly.
“Until dawn, Renly. Bend the knee or face the consequences.”
Renly took a bite of his peach, smiling.
“I’ll see you in the morning, brother. And bring your flaming sword. Perhaps it’ll light up the battlefield.”
Catelyn watched, powerless, as the brothers walked away, each carrying the burden of their stubbornness. The seeds of war had been planted, and blood would again be spilled in the name of a crown.
.
The gray light of the afternoon followed Catelyn Stark as she accompanied Renly back to his camp. The wind, heavy with the scent of the sea, whipped at the blue-and-gold mantle of the young king, who walked ahead with the same carefree demeanor one might display during a stroll through the gardens of Highgarden. The contrast between the two brothers—Stannis, rigid as stone, and Renly, radiant as the sun—was impossible to ignore.
“My brother is as unyielding as the walls of Storm’s End,” Renly said without looking back. “He’s always been that way. He’s never liked me. Perhaps because I came after, stealing the attention he believed he deserved.”
Catelyn remained silent, but the stern look she shot at Renly said much. He seemed to notice, for he turned with a smile that bordered on sarcasm.
“Oh, don’t mistake me, my lady. I say this without resentment. Stannis is who he is. Humorless, graceless. He’s always been the dullest elder brother anyone could have.”
“And you, Your Grace?” Catelyn asked, her voice low and controlled. “Are you the brother who laughs while the storm approaches?”
Renly laughed, a sound light and weightless.
“Perhaps I am, my lady. But who can blame a man for laughing when he knows he’ll win?”
Renly’s confidence irritated Catelyn, but she held her tongue. He continued:
“Look, Stannis has a small and starving army. I have men from nearly all the great houses. They love me, Lady Stark. They follow me because they believe in me. Because they see in me the king Robert was. And more! A just king, a beloved king.”
Catelyn couldn’t help herself.
“And a humble king as well,” she said, the sarcasm subtle but sharp.
Renly raised an eyebrow, surprised but not offended.
“Humility is an overrated virtue in kings,” he replied with another smile. “But if you prefer a man without shine or color, perhaps Stannis is more to your liking.”
Catelyn turned her gaze to the horizon, where the sun was beginning to dip into the sea. She didn’t respond. She felt increasingly desolate, as though she were merely a spectator in a tragedy she couldn’t prevent.
Renly’s camp stood in stark contrast to Stannis’s. It was smaller, cleaner, and more orderly. The tents were arranged in perfect rows, their vibrant banners fluttering in the wind like flowers in a well-tended field. But behind the apparent order, Catelyn noticed signs of imprudence.
Renly had left much of his troops and supplies behind in his haste to confront Stannis. The young king seemed overly confident in his current strength, with little thought for the consequences of a prolonged siege or a drawn-out battle.
Inside the royal pavilion, Renly gathered his captains and bannermen to discuss the next steps. The room was lit by torches and candelabras, but the atmosphere was tense.
“Stannis has no choice,” declared Randyll Tarly, his expression as severe as ever. “He must either face us or retreat to the sea. We must strike before he strengthens his defenses.”
“Strike?” interrupted Mathis Rowan, his brow furrowed in concern. “That’s foolishness. We have the advantage. Let him wither while we wait for reinforcements.”
“Waiting only weakens us,” Tarly retorted. “We’re far from Highgarden. Our provisions are limited. A swift battle is the best course.”
Renly listened to the arguments with apparent calm, but Catelyn could see that his decision was already made.
“We will fight,” Renly finally declared, his confident smile unwavering. “At dawn tomorrow, Stannis will witness the might of my army.”
After the meeting, Catelyn approached Renly, requesting permission to return to Riverrun.
“My place is not here, Your Grace,” she said firmly. “My son fights his own war. I must be by his side.”
Renly shook his head, refusing her request.
“No, Lady Stark. Stay. Witness what happens to those who stand against me. You’ll be safe here, I promise.”
Catelyn wanted to protest, but Renly’s gaze was implacable. She knew there was no persuading him.
As she left the pavilion, she was approached by Ser Robar Royce, one of Renly’s knights.
“Lady Stark,” he said, inclining his head. “You seem troubled.”
“And shouldn’t I be?” she replied. “This battle is madness.”
“Perhaps,” Ser Robar admitted, looking out toward the horizon. “But for some of us, it’s an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?” Catelyn repeated with disdain.
“I’m a second son, my lady. No lands, no titles, no purpose. This is my chance to find glory.”
Catelyn looked at him, seeing in his face the reflection of many other men in Renly’s camp—summer knights seeking fame and adventure, blind to the brutal reality of war.
As she returned to her tent, Catelyn thought of Robb again. He was young, yes, but possessed the wisdom of a long winter. She prayed he would never fall into the recklessness of those who called Renly their king.
That night, Catelyn knelt to pray. She prayed for the wisdom so many men around her lacked, and for the peace that seemed increasingly impossible. But deep down, she feared that no prayer could stop the blood that would be spilled at dawn.
***
Sansa
Sansa walked through the corridors of King’s Landing with light, graceful steps, her soft leather shoes barely audible against the marble floors. Her posture was impeccable, as always, her face serene and her expression calm. Yet, she felt more distant than ever from any true sense of peace. The palace, with its golden walls and vibrant tapestries, felt more like an oppressive labyrinth than a home, and the beauty of her chambers only emphasized her loneliness.
Today, that loneliness weighed heavier than usual, as she made her way to Joffrey’s chambers, where she had been invited to lunch with him.
Sansa didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse to be summoned to the prince’s room, where the expectation of a feast had long been replaced by suffocating tension. She had experienced this many times before: her upbringing and courtesy, honed over the years, made her the perfect lady in the eyes of any observer. But Sansa knew that Joffrey didn’t see her manners as a virtue. He preferred the fire of anger, the cruel manipulation he imposed on others. To him, Sansa was no longer a lady but a pawn he used for his entertainment.
She was aware of this. She knew that he, with his volatile temperament, delighted in the suffering of others—especially hers. At least, that’s what she had returned to thinking after Joffrey had brought a prostitute into his chambers to humiliate her.
Still, she couldn’t let that show. As she approached Joffrey’s quarters, Sansa prepared herself to be the same lady she had always been: courteous, graceful, and cold. There was no other way to deal with him, and though her soul cried out for a freedom she would never have, she faced the inevitability of this charade he called their relationship. Her stomach twisted, not with desire but with disgust, and she sighed softly.
It was at that moment that she saw her. Cersei Lannister, the queen, was on her way to her own chambers, and upon spotting Sansa, she approached with that smile that mixed sarcasm and superiority. As always, Cersei seemed the very image of a powerful woman, royalty exuded in every gesture, as if the Iron Throne itself had shaped her. She stopped before Sansa, and the look she gave the young Stark was sharp yet somehow curious.
“Oh, Sansa,” said Cersei, her voice deceptively soft. “You must be exultant with happiness, aren’t you? First, Joffrey humiliates his own mother for your sake, and then your brother Robb achieves yet another victory.”
What more could be said? Cersei’s irony, her light tone as if discussing something trivial, cut through the air between them. Sansa froze immediately. A wave of confusion swept over her. She knew nothing of this. No one had informed her of any victory by Robb, and while she could believe Joffrey might humiliate even his own mother, such a comment caught her off guard.
“I... I don’t know anything about this, my Queen,” Sansa replied, her voice calm and controlled but tinged with doubt. The confusion was evident in her eyes, though she tried to conceal it, maintaining her composure as always.
Cersei studied her for a moment, her green eyes missing none of Sansa’s movements. For an instant, it seemed as though the queen was weighing every word the young Stark had spoken. Sansa wasn’t lying. There was no sign of pretense in her expression. She truly didn’t know.
The silence that followed was heavy. Cersei, with her sharp smile, gave a soft laugh, though it wasn’t one of amusement—it was bitter, devoid of humor.
“This is even worse, then,” said Cersei, her tone making the word “worse” sound like venom. “Because by now, Joffrey should have informed you of Robb’s victory.”
Those words pierced Sansa’s chest like a sharp blade. Joffrey. He never missed an opportunity to wound her pride, and whenever Robb triumphed in battle, he made sure to take out his anger on Sansa, with words, glances, and cruel gestures.
For a moment, she thought of how he might treat her now, if he knew of Robb’s victory. With rage. Always with rage. And if he had already heard the news, the prospect of lunch turned into an impending nightmare. He would humiliate her, and she could do nothing but endure it.
A cold dread, like a winter storm, took hold of Sansa. She tried to hide it, but she couldn’t prevent a slight shiver from running down her spine. No matter how hard she tried to keep her mask intact, a shadow of fear settled deep within her heart. Having lunch with Joffrey had never been easy, but now, with the venom of Robb’s news, it would be worse. She could already see the cruelty in Joffrey’s eyes, the need to crush what remained of her spirit. He wanted, more than anything, to see her broken—and Robb had just given him a perfect excuse.
“No, Your Grace, I didn’t know.” Sansa’s response was automatic, almost instinctive, though the growing anxiety in her voice couldn’t be entirely concealed. She knew Cersei had noticed it. What she didn’t know was whether the queen intended to use her as a pawn in her game of power.
“It’s... a bit strange, isn’t it?” Cersei continued, tilting her head with feigned curiosity, her golden eyes fixed on Sansa. “Joffrey has always prided himself on being the first to hear of victories. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sparing you, or if he’s preoccupied with... other matters.”
Sansa’s stomach churned. Sparing her? He never spared anyone, least of all her. If he was avoiding the subject, what else might he be plotting for this lunch? She tried to push these thoughts aside and focus on the present, but the fear of an all-too-predictable future consumed her. What punishment would Joffrey unleash on her now? What humiliation would she endure because of Robb’s victory? She knew he would never forgive her for it.
“I... I must go, Your Grace.” The words escaped her lips unplanned, but she couldn’t bear the weight of the conversation any longer. The idea of facing Joffrey after this exchange with Cersei felt unbearable.
Cersei observed her with a slow smile, more mask than expression, and then nodded slightly.
“Of course, Sansa. Go to him,” she said, her voice sweet but laced with subtle venom. “But remember, my dear, a prince like Joffrey doesn’t need excuses to be cruel.”
Sansa was still processing Cersei’s words when an unexpected sound broke the air. Soft whistles echoed through the corridor, and she turned her head, startled. As the familiar figure appeared around the corner, a sense of ease washed over her, like a ray of sunlight piercing through heavy clouds. Tyrion Lannister, with his mischievous smile and ever-watchful eyes, approached with his characteristic irreverence, a hand in his pocket and the demeanor of someone who had just amused himself with some secret the world wasn’t privy to.
“Ah, Sansa!” he greeted her with a broad smile, his eyes gleaming. “And Queen Cersei...” He offered a brief bow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What an honor.”
Cersei didn’t respond, merely shooting Tyrion a withering glare before continuing on her way, the golden skirts of her gown trailing behind her like a storm. Sansa watched Cersei’s retreating figure, struck by the strange sense that, for all the queen’s efforts to conceal it, there was something vulnerable about her in that moment. But the feeling quickly dissipated as her gaze returned to Tyrion, who, as always, seemed to embody the antithesis of the weight and pomp that Cersei carried with her.
“What happened?” Tyrion asked, stopping in front of Sansa, his look of genuine curiosity tinged with a playful grin that refused to fade. Letting out a soft sigh, Sansa decided to respond as honestly as she could. There wasn’t much reason to hide her feelings from Tyrion; he always seemed to see through her, perhaps better than anyone else.
“Cersei said Joffrey humiliated her... because of me,” Sansa said, her tone soft but with a hint of apprehension. Those words still left her stomach in knots. She didn’t want to dwell on what they meant, but she couldn’t help it.
Tyrion paused, his eyes glinting with amused malice as he turned her words over in his mind. Tilting his head slightly, he wore the expression of someone savoring the moment, and then he chuckled softly.
“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice laced with biting irony. “The prostitute in Joffrey’s chambers? That was, of course, my dear sister Cersei’s handiwork.”
Sansa blinked, startled, her face paling slightly at Tyrion’s words. The prostitute? She had never imagined the situation was so... explicit. The idea that Cersei, Joffrey’s own mother, had orchestrated something so grotesque for some political or emotional end left Sansa speechless. Joffrey had blamed his mother for the incident, but she’d assumed he was only deflecting responsibility. She swallowed hard, the discomfort in her chest intensifying.
“What... happened?” she asked, regretting the question almost immediately. She didn’t want to know, yet she needed to understand. There was something deeply disturbing about the situation—something beyond the humiliation she already knew too well, something dark and dangerous. What did Joffrey do to someone like that prostitute? What did he do to those who disobeyed him or failed to show him respect? What might he do to her?
Tyrion noticed the look of disgust on her face, and for a moment, his amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of something resembling pity. But only a flicker.
“Well, Joffrey has his... inappropriate methods,” Tyrion said lightly, a tone Sansa found almost cruel. He seemed genuinely uncomfortable speaking about it, but the truth didn’t seem to trouble him enough to avoid the topic entirely. He leaned slightly closer, as if sharing an intimate secret, though Sansa knew that for him, nothing here was truly secret. “But in the case of the prostitute, she ended up caught in the middle of it all. Joffrey found a... rather specific way to teach his mother not to interfere between him and you.”
Sansa felt her stomach churn. The word “teach” echoed in her mind like a death sentence for the woman, and a wave of sadness and disgust washed over her. What did Joffrey mean by teaching someone? She closed her eyes briefly, trying to dispel the grotesque image forming in her mind. No... she didn’t want to know more.
She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself while Tyrion continued, seemingly oblivious to the distress his words caused.
“Joffrey has... a peculiar way of dealing with maternal authority,” Tyrion continued, his tone still cynical. “He may be a monster, but in his mind, he’s merely being ‘just.’ But because of you, he did what he thought necessary to assert his power.”
Sansa swallowed hard and averted her gaze. Poor woman. She felt a surge of compassion for the prostitute—a woman used as a pawn in Joffrey’s cruel game, stripped of control over her own fate. There was no mercy in Joffrey, and she couldn’t imagine he would ever feel anything close to it.
Noticing Sansa’s discomfort, Tyrion shifted his focus, glancing around at the stone walls of King’s Landing, which seemed to bear silent witness to all these cruelties. He walked beside her for a few steps before addressing her again, as though trying to lighten the mood.
“Ah, yes, about Robb’s victory. Cersei mentioned it, didn’t she?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted the change in Sansa’s expression. Once again, his satisfaction at unsettling her was evident, but so too was a flicker of genuine care. “Well, Sansa, if you’re curious about what happened... I can tell you.”
Despite herself, Sansa felt a small sense of relief. If anyone could explain Robb’s victory without turning it into an emotional trap, it was Tyrion. She didn’t want to hear more details about another bloody battle, but at least his perspective would be different from Joffrey’s and Cersei’s.
The Northerners infiltrated my uncle’s camp and cut the horse ties," Tyrion began, his voice light, a stark contrast to the weight of what he was describing. "Lord Stark sent the wolf among them, and when the wolf arrived, even the battle steeds started going mad. Knights were trampled to death inside their pavilions, and the common folk awoke terrified, fleeing without weapons, with no chance of running faster."
Sansa remained silent, the details of a massacre not exactly the kind of tale she wished to hear, but at the same time, she couldn’t shake the strange sensation that Robb had done something far more devastating than anyone could imagine.
"Ser Stafford was killed while chasing a horse. Lord Rickard Karstark killed him, with a spear to the chest. Ser Rubert Brax, Ser Lymund Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast are also dead. Half a hundred others were taken prisoner. Including my relatives, the sons of Jast and my cousin Martyn Lannister." Tyrion said this with a casualness that only he could muster, as if he were talking about something trivial. Sansa listened in silence, the weight of death hanging over each word. "And those who survived? Well, they’re spreading fantastic stories. They swear that the old gods of the North march with Robb Stark."
Sansa didn’t know what to say. Her mind was torn between the horror of death and the satisfaction she felt from Robb’s victory. She had to force herself to respond, to maintain composure.
"I’m sorry for your family’s losses, Tyrion," she said politely, though her mind thought something different. Robb will kill all of you.
Tyrion, upon hearing her words, flashed a small smile, full of the silent bitterness he never hid.
"Ah, I’m sure you truly mourn, Sansa," he said, with a tone that could be either a provocation or a simple comment, before stepping away, his smile still visible as he walked. "Now, good luck, my lady. It seems your destiny awaits."
Sansa stood there, watching Tyrion’s figure disappear as she gathered the courage to head toward Joffrey’s chambers. It was now or never.
Sansa felt the weight of her own steps as she approached Joffrey’s quarters. Each movement seemed slower than the last, as if fate were stretching before her, bringing with it a sense of inevitability. What would she do now? What could she say to him that was true, sincere, and not another word game she was so tired of? She had begun to realize that the lines between what was real and what was merely a facade were becoming more and more blurred, and she found herself increasingly wrapped in that tangle. She wasn’t so sure anymore if her anger and fear of Joffrey were still as strong as before. She felt something different inside her, a mix of confusion and... attraction. What would have once been an irreversible hatred was now turning into a strange form of desire.
When the door to the chambers opened, the sight of Joffrey hit her like a sudden blow. He was sitting at the table, his food already set before him, and the expression on his face was one of softness she hadn’t expected. He looked at her in a way that seemed almost genuine, his green eyes, usually so hard and unrelenting, now calmer, and Sansa felt a shiver run down her spine. How could he be so cruel and, at the same time, so... affectionate? She didn’t know, but the tension in her body seemed to ease a little, as if his presence calmed her, though she was still conflicted.
Joffrey immediately stood up, with a grace that contrasted with his usual fury, and with a gesture, he motioned for her to come closer. He helped her sit, pulling the chair out for her, and then began serving her with the same courtesy a highborn host would show to a lady of her class. He was being incredibly kind.
"Please, Sansa, help yourself," Joffrey said with a smile. His voice, always strong, was now lighter, as if he genuinely wanted to please her.
Sansa looked at him, still cautious. Cersei’s words echoed in her mind, and she wondered why Joffrey was acting this way. Where was the cruel prince he used to be when Robb won a battle? Where was the monster who made her tremble with just a look?
She didn’t know, but she no longer feared sitting at the table with him. They ate in silence for some time, with Joffrey serving her every dish, always attentive, as if he were making a conscious effort to show care. Sansa felt her resistance begin to wane in the face of this attention. Something inside her was melting, as though his gestures were thawing a part of her soul she thought had already turned cold and closed off to him. He was acting like a man who desired her presence, and that was, at the very least, unsettling.
She could wait no longer. She knew that if she were to continue this game, she would have to be more honest. It was time to face the truth. She lifted her gaze and, without hesitation, said what was on her mind.
"Joffrey, I know it wasn’t you who brought that woman to your room," her voice was firmer than she expected. It wasn’t just a statement; it was a demand, an attempt to understand what was really happening between them. "I heard it was your mother. She herself told me that you humiliated her."
Joffrey stopped cutting the meat on his plate and looked at her, his green eyes scanning her with an intensity that was at once piercing and empty. He seemed to have been struck directly, but the expression on his face didn’t change. His chin tightened slightly, and suddenly the air between them seemed to tense, as if the calm that had filled the room was cut by an invisible thread.
"What are you saying?" Joffrey’s voice, though low, was full of rage. He slammed the silverware onto the table with force, a dull sound that echoed through the room. "My mother... disturbed you with this?"
Sansa felt a chill sweep over her body, as if Joffrey’s words were the sword of an executioner about to strike. She didn’t want to provoke his fury any further, but she knew this was her only chance to rid herself of the feeling that she was simply being used. She could no longer swallow the lies.
She raised her hands, one of them reaching for his, touching him with a hesitant gesture. The delicacy of her touch, perhaps, was a sign of her attempt to soften the harshness of the situation, a plea for calm. She watched him carefully, trying to sense what was happening inside him.
"No, Joffrey, your mother didn’t disturb me," she answered quickly, hoping to calm him. She swallowed hard but kept her gaze firm. "I just... I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t understand what was happening."
She released his hand gently before leaning a little closer.
"Forgive me for not believing you," she whispered, but the sincerity in her words was stronger than she knew it could be.
Joffrey sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, as if he were struggling against a storm within him. When he opened them again, the fury had subsided, but his gaze was still filled with an intensity Sansa couldn’t fully understand.
"I can’t judge you, Sansa. I’ve done things to you that didn’t deserve forgiveness," he said, his voice sincere in its regret, but as always, there was something darker in his words. She lowered her eyes, feeling the weight of those words.
She knew exactly what he meant. The humiliations, the cruel words, the moments when he made her feel as though she were worth nothing. Those moments didn’t fade, and perhaps they never would, but something inside her was beginning to shift. The anger was slowly being replaced by a deeper sense of understanding.
He then leaned forward slightly, as though trying to make sure she heard him.
"But tell me, Sansa... don’t you care that I killed the prostitute?" The question was direct, unembellished, an invitation for the truth that she knew she was about to face. He watched her with cold intensity, but at the same time, he seemed to be waiting for her answer, as if seeking something more than just condemnation.
Sansa felt her heart tighten, but at the same time, she knew she couldn’t tell him the absolute truth. She cared, but she couldn’t say that to him. He was Joffrey, and his life and that of his family were immersed in a game of power, where the rules were written by him and no one else. She didn’t know what the right answer was, so she said what seemed most sincere.
"The prostitute..." she began, pausing for a moment. "She put herself in a very dangerous position by selling her body. That is a sin, Joffrey. She knew the risks, so, in a way, I don’t feel much pity for her. But on the other hand, I don’t want other people to pay for their conflicts."
Joffrey watched her intently, his eyes cold and calculating, but at the same time, there seemed to be something deeper there, as if he were truly absorbing her words. After a moment of silence, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, but one that conveyed some approval, though his tone always carried that natural reserve.
"You’re right, Sansa," he said with a cold tranquility, but also with a hint of softness that somehow made her feel closer to him. "If it happens again, I’ll deal with my mother directly."
Sansa gave a small, relieved smile, as if an invisible tension between them had finally dissipated. The conversation seemed to be taking a different turn, something lighter, something more like what she would have liked to see between them.
She carefully rose from the chair and, with firm steps, moved closer to Joffrey. He too stood, following her movement, and she felt his warmth close to hers, his strong and imposing body. Everything was about to change.
With a lightness in her words and a sweet look, Sansa said, "Let me give you a kiss then, Your Grace," her voice soft, filled with a genuine tenderness she was still trying to understand within herself. "To show how sorry I am for everything... and how I missed you during this time, even when I thought poorly of you."
Joffrey smiled in a way that made her forget everything around her. He didn’t say anything, merely leaned toward her, and she closed her eyes, trying to focus on the gesture, on what it meant for her. When their lips finally met, the sensation was different. It wasn’t just the kiss of a duty or a lie. It was something more. Sansa kissed him softly, trying to fake passion. But inside, she knew she wasn’t faking anything, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself.
Chapter 8: The Widow
Summary:
"I haven’t forgotten," Tyrion replied, his tone measured. "But I also know he’s fickle. Today it’s Sansa; tomorrow, it could be someone else. Margaery Tyrell, perhaps—a woman more experienced, more... willing to deal with the needs of a king. She’s a woman ready to lie with him."
Notes:
Good evening, everyone!
First of all, I hope you had a magical Christmas! Secondly, I want to wish you a Happy New Year! How was your first day of 2025?
Now, talking about my stories, guys, I haven't had much time this end of year, I haven't even been able to answer all the comments I get on my stories, but I managed to revise the new chapter of this one yesterday, the 31st, on the plane while I was on my way from Brasília to spend New Year's Eve in Rio de Janeiro (In fact, are there any Brazilians from RJ reading this story? Let's meet up!), if it hadn't been for the travel time, I wouldn't even have been able to post this Wednesday.
Anyway, guys, I'm really grateful for all the comments and kudos you've been leaving, even when I've been away. I'll reply soon to the comments that haven't been answered yet!
And many thanks to diekaiserin for his drawing of Joff and Sansa celebrating Christmas (I've put it in the endnotes for anyone interested in seeing it), if it existed in the Game Of Thrones universe. You made my heart warm with your affection ❤️
I wish you a new year full of light, peace and blessings. This year is ours!
Happy reading ❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion
Tyrion adjusted himself in his high chair with an audible sigh. The Small Council chamber was laden with tension, as it always seemed to be in recent times. The wine in his goblet remained untouched, a rare moment of forced sobriety, as he knew the morning promised discussions more difficult than usual.
Lord Varys, with his serpent-like smile, observed the other council members with disturbing calm, while Littlefinger toyed with the ring on his finger, a smile that did not reach his eyes etched on his face. Cersei sat at the head of the table, her composed face betraying a hint of irritation in her pursed lips.
"Where is Joffrey?" Tyrion broke the silence. It wasn’t curiosity but the growing discomfort in the air that made him speak.
Cersei huffed, the sound laden with exasperation.
"Where he always is. In the gardens, with Sansa." The Queen Regent spoke as if the answer were obvious, the implicit suggestion being that Tyrion should have deduced it himself.
"Ah, of course," Tyrion replied with light sarcasm, leaning back in his chair. "Our young king seems to have found a new pastime, hasn’t he?"
The tension between them was palpable. Since Tyrion had suggested—or manipulated, as Cersei would probably say—a rapprochement between Joffrey and Sansa, the Queen Regent had treated the relationship with a mix of disdain and distrust. But even she couldn’t deny that Sansa had become a moderating influence on the king’s behavior, albeit at a cost.
"I have no patience for your jests today, brother," Cersei retorted, her sharp gaze piercing.
Before Tyrion could reply, Varys cleared his throat.
"If I may, perhaps we should focus on the reason for this emergency meeting."
Cersei turned to the eunuch, and Tyrion noticed the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. The Queen Regent would never admit it, but even she knew when a distraction was welcome.
"Renly Baratheon is dead," Varys announced, his words echoing in the chamber like a verdict.
There was a moment of silence, followed by an explosion of murmurs and simultaneous questions.
"How?" Littlefinger asked, his voice sharp with interest.
"The details are still scarce," Varys replied, spreading his hands in a gesture of theatrical helplessness. "Some say it was Stannis, others speak of treachery within his own camp. Some even mention Lady Catelyn Stark, who appears to have been with him when he was killed. There are even rumors of something... supernatural."
"Supernatural?" Tyrion repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I hope you’re not suggesting that the old gods descended from the trees to cut young Renly in half."
Varys smiled enigmatically.
"Of course not, my lord. But in times of war, people’s imaginations run wild."
"The Tyrells?" Cersei interjected, cutting the conversation with her typical pragmatism.
"Divided," Varys responded. "Ser Loras Tyrell is devastated and has refused to swear fealty to Stannis. However, his house has not yet made a decisive move."
"An opportunity, perhaps," Littlefinger said softly, his eyes gleaming.
Tyrion leaned forward, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair.
"An opportunity, indeed. If we can bring them to our side, King’s Landing would gain not only military strength but also the financial support of Highgarden. A marriage between Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell would solve many of our problems."
Cersei frowned.
"You forget Joffrey is already betrothed to Sansa Stark."
"A betrothal that, frankly, has lost its purpose," Tyrion replied. "The Starks are at war with us. What value is there in maintaining such an alliance?"
"And you suggest we simply discard Sansa?" Cersei’s voice turned icy.
Tyrion met her gaze without blinking.
"I suggest we consider what is best for King’s Landing. If we can promise Margaery Tyrell to Joffrey, the benefits would far outweigh the cost."
"And what will happen to Sansa Stark?" Littlefinger asked, his voice curiously neutral.
Tyrion shrugged.
"She will remain here to see if we can still negotiate with her brother; failing that, we will arrange a marriage for her with a suitor of our choosing."
Cersei pressed her lips together, anger flashing in her eyes.
"You’ve always been good at treating people as pawns in your game, haven’t you, brother?"
"Better than treating them as human shields to protect your own interests," Tyrion shot back, his voice cutting.
The tension in the room was suffocating. Varys watched the exchange like a fascinated spectator, while Littlefinger seemed to relish the spectacle. Tyrion knew he had pushed Cersei too far, but he couldn’t back down—not when the alliance with the Tyrells could mean the difference between victory and defeat for the Lannisters.
Cersei leaned forward, her eyes locked on Tyrion’s.
"Perhaps you should remember who’s really in control here, brother."
"Oh, I never forget," Tyrion replied with a cold smile.
And so, silence hung heavy over the council, each member pondering their next move on a board of dangerously unstable pieces.
"We must think about the future," Tyrion said, his voice low but firm. "An alliance with the Tyrells is more than convenient; it’s essential. They have armies that can bolster our defenses against Stannis, wealth that can ease our finances, and, above all, influence in the south, where loyalty to the Iron Throne is fracturing."
He turned to Cersei, whose face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a mix of irritation and disdain.
"With all due respect to our young betrothed, Sansa Stark brings nothing to the marriage except her beauty."
"And you think beauty doesn’t matter to Joffrey?" Cersei retorted, sarcastic. "Or perhaps you’ve forgotten how obsessed he is with her?"
Tyrion took a deep breath, preparing for the storm he knew was coming.
"I forget nothing, dear sister. Indeed, it’s precisely that obsession that has ensured relative stability in his behavior—at least for now. But even with all of Sansa’s grace, she cannot give us armies, provisions, or a political alliance that could determine the course of this war."
Cersei leaned forward, her fingers clenched on the table.
"And you suggest we offer him Renly’s leftovers? Joffrey will never accept that. He’s a king, Tyrion, and a king doesn’t take what another man has discarded."
"Kings take what they need," Varys interjected, his voice soft and dangerous. "Their needs outweigh their personal desires. It’s the nature of power."
"Perhaps you should tell that to our young king," Cersei snapped, casting a sharp look at the eunuch.
"We don’t need his approval just yet," Tyrion countered, feeling his irritation grow. "Joffrey is still a minor. Until he comes of age, you and I, as his regents, decide what’s best for him and the realm."
Cersei huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"He’s not as easy to control as you imagine. You know that as well as I do—or have you forgotten you were the one who encouraged him to get closer to Sansa?"
"I haven’t forgotten," Tyrion replied, his tone measured. "But I also know he’s fickle. Today it’s Sansa; tomorrow, it could be someone else. Margaery Tyrell, perhaps—a woman more experienced, more... willing to deal with the needs of a king. She’s a woman ready to lie with him."
Cersei slammed her hand on the table.
"You understand nothing about my son!"
Tyrion held her gaze, letting the silence speak for itself before responding.
"No, sister. I understand him better than you’d like to admit."
The tension was palpable, but before Cersei could explode, Varys interjected once again, his conciliatory tone breaking through the rising storm.
"I believe we can all agree that an alliance with the Tyrells is of vital importance. The question now is who we should send to negotiate the terms."
Cersei leaned back, visibly trying to regain her composure.
"Ser Jacelyn Bywater would be a prudent choice. He’s loyal and reliable."
Tyrion shook his head, dismissing the idea immediately.
"Jacelyn is excellent at maintaining order in the streets, but he’s no diplomat. We need someone with a sharp tongue who knows the games of court."
Petyr Baelish smiled, raising his head like a predator sensing prey.
"Perhaps I could be of use."
Cersei shot him a distrustful look, but Littlefinger remained unshaken.
"I have good relations with House Tyrell. Loras Tyrell and I have exchanged friendly words, and even Mace Tyrell trusts my negotiation skills."
"And why should it be you?" Cersei asked, her suspicion evident in her voice.
Littlefinger smiled, a calculated gesture.
"Because I’m not a valuable hostage. I have no direct blood ties to the Iron Throne, which means my capture wouldn’t destabilize the realm. Moreover, as Master of Coin, I have the expertise to negotiate the financial and logistical terms of this alliance."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes, fully aware of Littlefinger’s danger precisely because he was so convincing.
"You’re asking for full authority to negotiate?"
"Naturally," Littlefinger replied, his voice silky. "And, of course, an escort of 300 well-armed men and quality horses. We wouldn’t want our precious offer to the Tyrells to be compromised, would we?"
Tyrion considered the words, hating Littlefinger’s impeccable logic.
"Very well. But know that your movements will be watched. I want no surprises."
Littlefinger simply inclined his head, satisfied.
"And what about Storm’s End?" Cersei asked, turning to Tyrion.
"We need to secure the loyalty of Paxter Redwyne," Tyrion replied. "I propose sending one of his twin sons as a hostage of good faith, keeping the other here in King’s Landing as a guarantee."
Cersei raised an eyebrow, surprised by her brother’s cold calculation.
"A bold move."
"Necessary," Tyrion countered.
As the meeting seemed on the verge of concluding, Cersei did something unexpected. She leaned across the table, touched Tyrion’s face, and kissed his forehead.
"Thank you for your help, brother."
The gesture was so unexpected that Tyrion was momentarily at a loss for words. He knew, however, that it wasn’t genuine gratitude. Cersei was playing one of her games, and he couldn’t let his guard down.
As the fog outside dimmed the daylight into a distant memory, Tyrion watched Petyr Baelish leave the chamber with a satisfied smile. He didn’t envy the man’s journey, but he also knew he should be more concerned about whatever Cersei was plotting. After all, in the game of thrones, trust was a rare currency, and even the smallest gestures could conceal a sharp blade.
***
Joffrey
The gardens of King’s Landing were silent, shrouded in a thin mist rising from Blackwater Bay and spreading like a veil around the marble fountains and well-tended rose bushes. Joffrey walked with confident strides, though his heart beat slightly faster than usual. Sansa’s kisses still burned on his lips, filling him with a mix of triumph and power that made him smile to himself.
Sansa. His Sansa. Submissive and sweet, as a lady should be. He remembered the blush on her cheeks when his fingers had touched her skin, the slight hesitation in her lips before yielding to his. She enchanted him in a way few things in the world could. She was his, and now he had no doubts about it.
But the moment of contemplation was interrupted when Ser Mandon Moore, one of the Kingsguard, approached and bowed stiffly.
"Your Grace, the Small Council requests your presence at the castle."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, irritated by the interruption but also intrigued. He had learned that the council’s urgent meetings rarely brought good news, but he was the king, and his presence was always required—or so they liked to say.
"Very well. Tell them I’m on my way."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Joffrey adjusted the crimson velvet cloak he wore and began walking back toward the Red Keep. Tyrion Lannister emerged from a side archway, the sound of his short steps echoing through the empty space.
"Ah, my beloved nephew!" Tyrion exclaimed, his tone laced with the usual irony. "Always a pleasure to see you."
Joffrey stopped, crossing his arms.
"Uncle. Why are you skulking around the castle like a rat looking for crumbs?"
Tyrion ignored the jab and gave a mischievous smile.
"Just doing what I do best, dear king: surviving. But actually, I’m here to bring you news."
"News?" Joffrey narrowed his eyes. "I hope it’s good."
"That depends on your perspective," Tyrion tilted his head. "Renly Baratheon is dead."
Joffrey felt the blood pulse through his veins. He straightened his posture, his eyes gleaming with fierce excitement.
"Dead?" He repeated, almost incredulous. "Finally!"
Tyrion continued, his expression more serious now.
"Yes. They say he was assassinated in his own camp, in his war tent. Catelyn Stark was present, though it’s unclear whether she had anything to do with it."
Joffrey shrugged, not hiding his satisfaction.
"It doesn’t matter who killed him. What’s important is that he’s dead. That’s one less enemy to worry about."
"True," Tyrion agreed, though his tone was more cautious. "However, there are rumors. Some say it was Stannis’s doing, and that he used dark magic to accomplish it."
"Dark magic?" Joffrey laughed, a cold and disdainful sound. "Only cowards resort to magic. Stannis is no match for me, magic or not."
"Even so, it’s something to consider," Tyrion remarked, his gaze assessing his nephew. "Stannis now commands what remains of Renly’s army. His strength is growing, and King’s Landing is not yet prepared to withstand a prolonged siege."
Joffrey waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away an annoying fly.
"Stannis can come whenever he pleases. My father was a great man, a warrior, and I am greater still. The Iron Throne is mine, and no traitor will take it from me."
Tyrion observed the young king for a moment, something in his gaze weighing the truth of Joffrey’s words. Finally, he smiled, though there was something unsettling in the gesture.
"I admire your confidence, Your Grace. I hope it’s enough to keep the city standing."
Joffrey ignored the remark, more interested in the sense of victory the news of Renly’s death brought him. He resumed walking, his steps quicker now, his mind already turning to the next move on the board.
"Ring the bells!" he commanded without turning to Tyrion. "I want the entire city to know that Renly Baratheon is dead. Let them celebrate the end of another usurper."
"A wise decision, Your Grace," Tyrion replied, his voice dripping with irony that Joffrey chose to ignore.
As Joffrey strode through the halls of the Red Keep, Tyrion trailed a few steps behind, his short strides echoing off the cold stone walls. The young king felt invigorated by the news of Renly’s demise, though he sensed his uncle wasn’t finished with the matter. Tyrion wore that look Joffrey had come to recognize: the expression of someone who saw the entire board while others were still adjusting their pieces.
"Renly’s death has certainly shifted the board," Tyrion began, his tone reflective. "But not entirely in our favor. Most of Renly’s men, as expected, have already bent the knee to Stannis."
"Cowards, all of them," Joffrey replied with disdain, not bothering to look back. "Traitors always flock to another traitor. It doesn’t matter. I’ll crush them all."
"Ah, but not all were so quick to pledge their swords," Tyrion said, savoring his words. "The Tyrells, for instance, have yet to make their choice."
Joffrey stopped mid-stride, turning sharply to face Tyrion.
"The Tyrells? Why haven’t they joined Stannis yet?"
"Because they’re smarter than most," Tyrion said with a slight smile. "Or perhaps they’re simply waiting for the best offer."
Joffrey narrowed his eyes, trying to discern what his uncle was hinting at.
"The Tyrells were devoted to Renly. His young widow, Margaery… they say she’s inconsolable."
Tyrion’s tone was light, but Joffrey caught the undertones. He’d learned, partly thanks to Tyrion himself, that words were rarely as simple as they seemed. Something about the way his uncle spoke of Margaery Tyrell made Joffrey suspicious.
"The Tyrells’ only path forward is to join us," Joffrey declared, crossing his arms. "If they wish to honor Renly’s memory, they have no other choice. Stannis has nothing to offer but his ugliness and fanaticism. And Robb Stark? He’s a boy playing at war. The North is cold and empty. They have nothing of interest to the Tyrells."
Tyrion nodded, his eyes gleaming with interest.
"A rather… accurate analysis, Your Grace."
Joffrey raised his chin, pleased by the compliment.
"The Crown can offer far more."
"Indeed," Tyrion said, pausing as if weighing his words. "A marriage, for example, would be an effective way to seal an alliance with the Tyrells."
Joffrey’s expression immediately darkened, his features hardening.
"There’s no need for that."
"No?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his tone casual. "It’s a fairly common solution."
"I’m already betrothed to Sansa Stark," Joffrey cut him off, his voice firm. "And that’s not up for discussion."
Tyrion raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Of course, of course. Merely a suggestion."
Joffrey narrowed his eyes but continued.
"The entire Tyrell family can receive important positions at our court. Loras can serve in the Kingsguard, and Margaery…" He hesitated for a moment before continuing in a calculated tone. "She can marry my younger brother, Tommen, when he’s older."
Tyrion tilted his head, considering the statement.
"A generous offer, Your Grace. And what of Mace Tyrell? What do you think he’ll ask for himself?"
Joffrey smiled coldly.
"He’ll get what I decide he deserves. And if that’s not enough, he can join Stannis and die with him."
For a moment, Tyrion remained silent, his gaze fixed on the young king. There was something in Joffrey’s coldness, a hardness he recognized but found unsettling. Finally, he let out an exaggerated sigh.
"It’s always a pleasure to see Your Grace’s resolve."
Joffrey turned without another word, resuming his march through the corridors. He felt he’d said all that needed to be said. Tyrion’s words echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside. He was the king. The decisions were his, and no one—not even his uncle—would make him change his mind.
Yet, in the recesses of his mind, a shadow of doubt lingered. The war was far from over, and the weight of the throne seemed heavier with each step. But Joffrey quickly dismissed the thought. He was the king, and kings did not doubt themselves. They couldn’t.
***
Sansa
Night had fallen over King’s Landing, thick and silent, like a black cloak draped over the world. The city, with its imposing walls and towering spires, seemed more isolated, distant from the bustle of markets and streets that, during the day, pulsed with the frantic movement of citizens and soldiers. Now, the city breathed slowly, as if awaiting something that had yet to arrive. The wind carried with it a faintly salty fragrance, reminiscent of the distant sea. But for Sansa, what weighed most at that moment wasn’t the freshness of the breeze but the heaviness lodged in her chest.
She had slipped away from her guards and the ever-watchful eyes of the court. Unlike other nights, when she retreated cautiously to avoid suspicion, tonight Sansa felt her heart weighed down. She was exhausted—not just physically but emotionally. The city seemed to carry on its relentless rhythm, but she was in a trance, a mix of crushed hopes and shattered dreams. Once again, she sought refuge in the godswood, the only place that gave her even a fleeting sense of peace.
The path to the godswood was narrow and winding, flanked by tall, imposing trees whose roots intertwined, creating a landscape of shadows and strange forms. The darkness of the place seemed to shield Sansa, as though the trees themselves embraced her, keeping the outside world’s tensions at bay. The soft sound of leaves rustling in the wind was her only comfort amid her tumultuous thoughts.
She stopped near the small altar, where, among the trees, a circle of stones stood—a relic of the old ways of worship. It was there, weeks ago, that she had begun meeting with Ser Dontos Hollard, the knight whose disheveled appearance and unsettling cheerfulness made him seem as out of place in King’s Landing as she felt. He awaited her there, as always, the way the wind played with his cloak reminding her of a clumsy crow in flight—awkward and disoriented but strangely free in its own way.
"My lady," Dontos said, bowing in greeting, though his expression carried an unexpected seriousness. He watched her with more intensity than usual, his unsettling yet captivating eyes betraying his intent. The lightness of his posture had given way to a shadow, as if something important had been spoken. "I heard something tonight…"
Sansa paused in front of him, her breath quickening. Her mind was still preoccupied with memories from recent weeks, the treacherous games of power and alliances that surrounded her. But Dontos’s expression unsettled her. What did he have to tell her?
"What did you hear?" Sansa asked, her voice now quieter, laden with a curiosity she didn’t want to admit but couldn’t suppress.
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting over her shoulder as if ensuring no one else was near. Then, he lowered his head slightly and whispered:
"I’ve heard that Renly Baratheon is dead."
The words fell like stones into a calm pond. Sansa felt a deep shock, a sense of vertigo that made her stagger. Renly Baratheon, dead? How was that possible? She could barely process the idea.
"Dead?" she repeated, her voice softer than she intended, the disbelief keeping her from speaking louder.
"Yes… they say his brother Stannis used… black magic." Ser Dontos paused, his eyes fixed on her face, perhaps trying to gauge her reaction. He didn’t need to elaborate further. The mere mention of black magic was enough to fuel the kind of rumors that couldn’t be ignored, even in a place like King’s Landing.
Shock quickly gave way to a bitter realization. Joffrey now had one less opponent. She could hardly grasp the implications of this, yet a part of her mind wanted to focus on anything else—on the quiet moments she had spent with Joffrey in the gardens, moments devoid of the weight of secrets and conspiracies. But Dontos seemed unconcerned with the effect his words had.
"And now the kings will compete for the Tyrell alliance, Lady Sansa. Most likely through Margaery Tyrell," he said, and Sansa felt a chill run down her spine. The mention of Margaery Tyrell—the beautiful widow of Renly—and the possibility of her marrying one of the kings was a tangible, frightening threat for Sansa. If Joffrey united with the power of the Tyrells, it would mean a formidable fortress beside the Crown, something that could destroy any chance her brother Robb might have of achieving what he needed.
Sansa felt the pressure in her chest intensify, as if the air around her had thickened and become harder to breathe. She took a step back, her mind churning with conflicting thoughts. What would it mean for her, personally, if Margaery were to marry Joffrey? What would it mean for House Stark and her brother?
"Joffrey…" she whispered, more to herself than to Dontos, and the name echoed in the darkness like a nightmare. The thought of seeing him married to Margaery Tyrell disturbed her in unexpected ways. There was a pang of jealousy, a sense of loss, but at the same time, a colder reasoning surfaced in her mind. Even if she harbored no feelings for Joffrey, a marriage between him and Margaery wouldn’t just be an insult to her but also to what remained of her house.
"No," she said, her voice stronger now, more assertive, with an anger in her words she barely recognized. "We can’t let that happen. Joffrey can’t marry Margaery Tyrell."
Dontos looked at her with a puzzled expression, not understanding the weight of what he had just heard. His simple, unpretentious mind couldn’t grasp the depth of the political and personal ramifications at play.
"But, my lady, wouldn’t it be…" he began, confusion overtaking his face. "Wouldn’t it be good for you—for all of us—if Joffrey were to marry her? You’d be free of him…"
Sansa cut him off, her voice harder now.
"It’s not about what’s good for me," Sansa said, her voice trembling with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. "It’s not about me. It’s about my brother and what will happen to him. If Joffrey marries Margaery Tyrell, it will strengthen the Crown in a way that could destroy any chance Robb has of reclaiming the North. It doesn’t matter if I have to sacrifice myself to stop it. I can’t let it happen."
Dontos fell silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on her. He seemed to understand now, though in a simpler, calmer way. But Sansa knew he didn’t see things as she did. He didn’t know what it was like to feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders—the weight of an entire house depending on decisions she had no power to make.
She took a deep breath, trying to control the emotions bubbling inside her. Every word she spoke felt heavier than she could bear.
"No matter what happens, I will do whatever it takes to protect my house. If it means sacrificing myself to stop this alliance, I will." She looked at Dontos, her eyes filled with unshakable determination. She didn’t know what more she could do, but she knew she couldn’t let House Stark be destroyed in the name of a marriage that would bring more power to the Crown.
Sansa bid Ser Dontos farewell, telling him she had to return to the castle. The wind was gentler now, the night’s chill beginning to bite at her skin as she walked back through the godswood. Her steps were light, almost invisible, as if she were trying not to disturb the night’s tranquility. The godswood, with its ancient, silent trees, had always been the place where Sansa sought refuge—where the rustle of leaves seemed to absorb her anguish. Yet, in recent weeks, her thoughts had grown heavier than any shadow the godswood could shelter.
As Sansa approached the gates of Maegor’s Holdfast, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the shadows, making her heart clench as though caught in an iron grip. It was Joffrey Baratheon, his pale features illuminated faintly by the torchlight. Beside him stood Sandor Clegane, the Hound, his hulking presence exuding menace. His cold, watchful eyes were fixed on her, though they seemed distant, preoccupied with thoughts far beyond the moment.
Joffrey, on the other hand, seemed entirely absorbed in her presence. His possessive gaze bore into her, and with a small gesture, he commanded her to stop.
“Where have you been?” His voice, soft yet sharp, sliced through the quiet of the night. He spoke not merely as a prince but as a man intent on asserting dominion, the very act of questioning her a means of ensuring she remained firmly within his grasp.
For a moment, Sansa was at a loss for words, the instinct to retreat into her privacy warring with the knowledge that such a reprieve was impossible—not when he watched her so intently, awaiting her explanation. She lowered her head, as she always did in his presence, searching for the words that would placate him and avoid a confrontation.
“I was in the godswood,” she answered softly, almost hesitantly. “I went to pray.”
Joffrey’s surprise flickered briefly across his face before vanishing. He didn’t give her time to elaborate, as if her very solitude were an affront to his authority.
“I don’t want you wandering alone at night,” he said coldly, his words falling like a decree. “It is my duty to ensure your safety, Sansa.”
The weight of his statement pressed down on her. She wanted to protest, to argue that she didn’t need his protection, but she knew it would be futile. Instead, she merely nodded, yielding once again to his demands. The silence stretched between them as their footsteps echoed through the corridor. She focused on controlling her breathing, trying to push away the unease that always accompanied his proximity.
Then Joffrey spoke again, his voice laced with curiosity and something darker.
“You seem troubled.” His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her, dissecting every movement, every breath she took. His tone was almost mocking, as though daring her to share what weighed on her mind.
Sansa drew in a small, nearly imperceptible sigh, her fingers clutching the edge of her gown. What could she possibly say? What would he want to hear? Did he truly care about her thoughts, or was this another ploy to assert control over her? A small ember of defiance flickered within her. Perhaps it was the injustice of her circumstances, or perhaps it was the bitterness of hearing his false concern. Whatever it was, it pushed her to speak.
“I’ve heard things,” she began, her voice faltering but steady enough to carry her meaning. “Rumors about you and Margaery Tyrell. About marriage…”
The tension between them thickened, the air seeming heavier. Joffrey froze for a moment, his gaze locked on hers, surprise flickering briefly in his expression before his face hardened with anger.
“What?” His voice was low, almost a growl, laced with disbelief and simmering fury. “What lies have you been told? I’ve already made it clear to my uncle that I will not marry her.”
Sansa searched his face, her own expression guarded. Part of her wanted to believe him, to trust that he wouldn’t turn to Margaery Tyrell. But she knew how quickly allegiances shifted in King’s Landing. Joffrey might be resolute now, but that could change the moment it suited his ambitions. His calm exterior felt unsustainable, and she could sense the cracks beneath it.
“That’s what’s expected of a king, isn’t it?” she said softly, her tone tinged with sadness. “To change his mind and marry Margaery, because that’s what everyone expects of you.”
Joffrey moved toward her abruptly, a predator closing in on his prey. She stood frozen, her eyes fixed on his face, searching for any sign of what he might do next. His words came sharp and firm, a possessive edge to his tone.
“No one will dissuade me from being with you,” Joffrey declared, his voice quiet but dripping with intensity. He placed a hand firmly on her shoulder, forcing her to look up at him. His grip was unyielding, his eyes demanding her attention. He spoke as though she were a possession, something he had already claimed and would not relinquish.
Surprisingly, the raw desire in his tone sent an unexpected shiver through her. There was something deeply unsettling about his fervor, but beneath her unease, another thought began to form—a calculated realization.
As he leaned closer, Sansa didn’t retreat. Instead, she stepped forward, her chest nearly brushing against his, her gaze unwavering. She tilted her head slightly, her soft words carrying a deliberate weight.
“I can’t imagine…” she began, her voice trembling with an emotion she knew she must suppress. “I can’t imagine being promised to another man, married to someone else… lying with anyone but you.”
Her confession was almost a whisper, a delicate thread meant to ensnare. Joffrey’s expression shifted, his eyes darkening with something primal as he absorbed her words. Sansa could see the reaction she wanted—the possessive anger that flared in his gaze, the sense of triumph that she allowed him to feel. Every syllable, every movement was a calculated choice, meant to guide him into exactly the state she needed.
Joffrey surged forward, gripping her face with both hands as he kissed her fiercely, his lips demanding and fervent. The kiss was overwhelming, a mixture of rage and possession. Sansa, caught off guard by its intensity, responded instinctively. Her lips parted under his, though her mind was miles away.
While his warmth pressed against her, her thoughts focused sharply on a single, inescapable goal. Robb needs Margaery Tyrell. He must secure her. This marriage must happen—for all of us.
Notes:
*Cute moment*
The dear diekaiserin sent me a drawing she made of what Joffrey and Sansa's Christmas would be like if it existed in Game Of Thrones, I was very happy with the gesture of affection and I wanted to share her drawing with everyone, which is in the link below ❤️
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1czvo_dvx25W8hSCzhJPvBysH1wNnzYXz/view?usp=drive_link
Chapter 9: Infinity War
Summary:
"Be careful, little bird," he said at last. His voice carried a note of warning, but it was not harsh. It was as if he were giving her advice—a sincere caution. "Joffrey won’t like seeing such a fine-looking lad near his betrothed."
Notes:
Good evening, everyone.
Well, as you already know, it's not every week that I'll be able to post, but when I do, it'll be on Thursday.
Thank you so much for your comments and kudos, they really encourage me not to stop writing in such hectic times 🥹
I hope you like the chapter and the new character 🤐
I'll reply to the comments on the previous chapter soon 😊
Happy reading!Read the final notes!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sansa
The sun was beginning to sink on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and red, when Sansa decided she needed to go for a ride. The Red Keep, with its stifling corridors and incessant whispers, seemed to steal the very air from her lungs. Joffrey was in a meeting with his uncle, and the prospect of a moment alone—or as alone as she could be under constant watch—felt irresistible. Ever since the news of Renly’s death, her mind had been spinning around the idea of uniting Robb with Margaery Tyrell. But how? How could she convince such a powerful house to ally with the brother whom the Lannisters branded a traitor?
As these questions echoed in her mind, she descended to the stables, where a bay horse awaited her, its coat gleaming under the fading sunlight. A squire approached to help her mount. There was something about him that made her hesitate for a brief moment. He was a handsome young man, broad-shouldered and strong-handed—the kind of man who once would have fueled her romantic daydreams. He had hair as black as midnight and intense blue eyes that met hers without wavering. There was no boldness in his gaze, yet something about it unsettled her—a kind of recognition. Sansa furrowed her brow slightly. Did she know this face from somewhere?
At last, the young man broke the silence.
"Lady Sansa." His voice was deep but gentle, accompanied by a respectful bow.
She nodded timidly, maintaining the composure she had worked so hard to cultivate. He helped her onto the horse, his hands briefly touching her waist before withdrawing. The contact was fleeting, but enough to send a shiver through her. Who was he? Perhaps a new squire among the many who served at the Red Keep. Or perhaps someone who had crossed her path before, though she could not recall when.
Sansa pushed these thoughts aside as she took the reins and pressed the horse’s flanks, urging it into an elegant stride across the courtyard. The cool afternoon breeze caressed her face, and for a moment, a fleeting glimpse of freedom crossed her mind. But freedom did not exist here. There were high walls around her, always watched, always scrutinized, always trapped.
She turned the horse, guiding it in circles around the training yard, and a melancholic smile curved her lips. There was a time when she had hated riding. As a child, she had preferred carriage rides, preferred walking through gardens, dreaming of balls and music. Now, she would ride until the horse’s legs could no longer bear her weight if it meant escaping, even for an instant, the oppressive reality that surrounded her.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t ride beyond those walls. She couldn’t leave. And as much as she hated to admit it, the thought of leaving Joffrey now brought a pang to her chest. Sansa loathed herself every time she realized she was falling in love with the Young King again.
She felt the squire’s gaze still on her, and once more, the sensation of familiarity unsettled her. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, a reflection of times when she had felt safer. But the truth was that nothing here was safe. Sansa tightened her grip around the reins, frustration settling in her chest. She needed to think. She needed to find a way to ensure Robb and Margaery united before the Lannisters did it first.
Sansa noticed the squire still watching her from a distance, and an involuntary blush warmed her cheeks. She averted her gaze to the reins between her fingers, trying to focus on the sensation of the firm leather against her skin. There was something in the way he looked at her that left her uneasy, as if he were studying her every move—but without the audacity of a man like Joffrey. It was not a look of possession, nor one of defiance. There was something there she could not name.
The cold afternoon breeze sent strands of her hair flying around her face, and Sansa forced herself to lift her chin. The young man was tall, much taller than the other squires, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and a bearing that suggested he wouldn’t remain in his position for long. Soon he would become a knight, she thought. And then, perhaps, Joffrey would call him to war.
After some time riding in circles, Sansa pulled on the reins and slowed the trot, feeling the growing discomfort of being confined to such a restricted space. The sense of freedom the ride had granted her was quickly replaced by frustration. She could not ride beyond the gates, could not feel the wind against her face in a carefree gallop as she once had in Winterfell. Now, every step was watched, every movement analyzed, every word calculated.
The squire moved toward her the moment he noticed she had stopped. His steps were swift yet heavy, and as he approached, Sansa noticed the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. His voice was firm and controlled when he asked for permission to help her dismount.
"Excuse me, my lady."
The polite and respectful tone surprised her, but it was the accent that made something inside her turn over. The sound of his voice did not belong to King’s Landing. It was a familiar sound. A sound of home. The North.
Sansa stared at him for a moment, her mind buzzing with disjointed memories. Where had she heard that voice before? Why did it seem so familiar? It was only when the squire extended his hand to help her that recognition struck her like a bolt of lightning, piercing through her confusion.
Arthur Whitehill.
The name formed in her mind as if someone had whispered it into her ear. House Whitehill was sworn to the Starks, and Sansa vaguely remembered his father—a stern lord with a rigid demeanor. Lord Whitehill had traveled south with her father’s army and, as far as she knew, had been killed. But then… how was Arthur here? How had he escaped his father’s fate? Why was he not a prisoner? And, above all, why did no one here seem to know who he was?
Sansa’s heart pounded in her chest. If anyone knew his true identity, he would never have such freedom to move about King’s Landing, let alone be so close to her. He was not just any squire. He was infiltrated.
Sansa took a breath and tried to maintain her composure. What should she say? Any misstep could expose him. Inhaling discreetly, she forced a small smile and inclined her head slightly.
"I’m sorry, ser, but I haven’t had the honor…"
Arthur smiled, and something about it disarmed her. It was not mocking, like Joffrey’s smiles. Nor did it carry malice. It was almost… conspiratorial. As if he understood exactly what was running through her mind.
"I’m no ser, my lady. Not yet." His voice remained low and controlled, but his eyes held hers with intensity. "I imagine you’ve recognized me."
Sansa felt heat rise to her face. He knew. He knew that she remembered. And still, he was here, speaking to her as if they were allies. As if they shared a secret.
"I’m here to protect you, Lady Sansa," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "In the name of House Whitehill. Whatever you need, you may ask me. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you since I became a squire."
Sansa blinked, stunned. A Northerner, in King’s Landing, infiltrated within the Red Keep. An ally, here, in the enemy’s den. Her heart pounded even harder. Was he truly here for her? How? Why? And, above all, what did this mean for the game she was playing?
Sansa’s mind spun with possibilities, but she forced herself to keep her expression neutral. She could not reveal too much. Not here, not now. With one last look at Arthur, she gave a slight nod, trying to absorb the weight of his words. An ally in the court of snakes.
Before she could ask how to communicate with him or whether he would always be there to assist her, a movement in the distance made her hold her breath.
The imposing figure of Sandor Clegane was approaching, and Sansa felt a chill run down her spine. The Hound moved with his usual lazy yet predatory gait, his shadowed eyes fixed on Arthur Whitehill. When he finally stopped before them, silence hung heavy as lead.
"Do you need something, squire?" the Hound asked, his voice rough as grinding stones.
Arthur turned to him calmly, his expression composed, as if he were not the least bit intimidated by the presence of the feared Kingsguard. When he replied, his voice was perfectly adapted to the accent of the Crownlands.
"No, ser. Lady Sansa made a small grimace of pain as she dismounted, and I was merely making sure she was well."
Sansa realized, in a flash of astonishment, that Arthur had completely suppressed any trace of his northern accent. If she hadn’t heard him before, she would never have guessed he came from the North. She shifted her gaze to the Hound and saw that he was watching her intently. She understood then that she needed to corroborate Arthur’s story.
"Yes… it was just a small discomfort, nothing more," she said with a slight nod.
The Hound snorted, his eyes flashing beneath his helm.
"Go on, then, boy." The order carried a weight that left no room for argument.
Arthur hesitated for a brief moment before turning to Sansa and offering her a final, formal bow.
"Lady Sansa." His voice was neutral, but his eyes, for a brief instant, told a different story. There was something there—something like a silent vow. Then, he stepped away, vanishing among the other squires and stable hands in the courtyard.
Sansa had no time to reflect, for as soon as Arthur left, she felt the Hound’s gaze upon her again. There was something sharp and assessing in his expression, and she swallowed hard.
"Be careful, little bird," he said at last. His voice carried a note of warning, but it was not harsh. It was as if he were giving her advice—a sincere caution. "Joffrey won’t like seeing such a fine-looking lad near his betrothed."
Blood rushed to Sansa’s face.
"He was only helping me dismount," she said, keeping her eyes down, pretending distraction as she smoothed the skirts of her dress.
"Hmph." Clegane let out a skeptical sound, as if he didn’t believe her but also didn’t care enough to press the matter. He remained silent for a moment, then exhaled a long sigh.
"Come. I’ll escort you back to your chambers."
Sansa knew she had no choice. She cast one last glance at the courtyard, searching for Arthur among the squires, but he had already disappeared. Feeling the weight of Clegane’s gaze on her, she turned and walked beside him, the Hound’s shadow looming over her like a specter.
Each step echoed against the stone, and Sansa couldn’t help but think—Arthur Whitehill was here for her. A northerner, hiding in plain sight, infiltrating the Red Keep. What did it mean? What did he know? And more importantly—what should she do about it?
***
Joffrey
Joffrey sat upon the great Iron Throne, but his posture was not that of a king in glory; rather, he looked like a bored young man. His right leg swung slightly as he sipped a cup of water, trying to push away the stifling heat that filled the throne room, even now, long after nightfall.
Tyrion approached with measured steps, wearing that ever-confident air of his—somewhere between insolence and courtesy.
"Any news from Riverrun?" Joffrey asked, making no effort to hide the disinterest in his voice. His thoughts were occupied with more urgent matters—Sansa, the games of manipulation unfolding between them, and the feelings for her that only grew stronger.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk on his face.
"It seems Cleos Frey has yet to return. That means he is either dead or imprisoned. Either way, my plan has failed."
Joffrey narrowed his eyes, turning his head sharply to glare at his uncle.
"What are you talking about?"
Tyrion’s smirk widened slightly, as if he were addressing a particularly slow student.
"I did not send Cleos Frey to Riverrun merely to make a counteroffer to Robb Stark. If that had been my only intention, I would have sent a raven. The Lannister men who accompanied him were ordered to attempt to free Jaime. But since too much time has passed without word, I believe the plan did not succeed."
Joffrey frowned and drummed his fingers impatiently on the armrest of the throne.
"You should have told me about this beforehand!" His voice came out sharp. His chest burned, not just with anger but with humiliation. He was the king. The king! And Tyrion had acted without his permission, without even consulting him.
Tyrion tilted his head slightly, studying him.
"And ruin the surprise? I intended to present you with a great triumph. I imagine you would have preferred to hear ‘Jaime is on his way’ rather than ‘Cleos Frey has been captured and possibly killed.’ But, well, it seems we must now contend with the second option."
Joffrey clenched his jaw, his fist tightening on the armrest of the throne. The thought of his uncle Jaime still being held in the hands of the traitor Stark made his blood boil. Jaime, who should be leading his armies, crushing his enemies. Jaime, who should be here, at his side. And instead, all he had was Tyrion, with his cunning eyes and his venomous mouth.
"You failed," Joffrey said coldly. "And you have put House Lannister’s honor at risk. My grandfather will not be pleased to hear that you wasted men and an envoy on a failed attempt."
Tyrion sighed and rubbed the scar that marked his face.
"Yes, I imagine he won’t be pleased. But I can assure you, I handle his wrath far better than you do, dear nephew." He smiled, but his eyes were hard. "Regardless, we cannot change what has already happened. We must now decide our next course of action. Lord Tywin must hear of the mission’s failure before word reaches him from another mouth. And we need to strengthen our military presence in the Reach, because if the Tyrells choose not to ally with us, that is where the first cracks will appear."
Joffrey waved a dismissive hand.
"Speak to my mother about it. I have more important matters to attend to."
Tyrion gave a half-smile.
"Ah, yes. Matters concerning Lady Sansa?" His eyes gleamed with amused malice. "I saw her riding today. Quite impressive how comfortable she seems in King’s Landing lately. Who would have thought a Stark could learn to live among lions?"
The comment made Joffrey shift on the throne. He had passed through the courtyard earlier for a brief glimpse of his betrothed. The image of Sansa, her red hair flowing in the wind, her eyes alight as she rode, surfaced in his mind. He also remembered that squire who had helped her dismount—the way he had looked at her. A dull rage rose in his throat.
"Sansa is mine. She knows that," he growled.
Tyrion chuckled, shaking his head.
"Of course, of course. And I’m sure with each passing day, she grows more convinced of it."
Joffrey did not like his uncle’s mocking tone. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists, but he said nothing. He still needed Tyrion, at least for now. But one day—one day—he would show the Imp who truly ruled here.
And he would show Sansa, too.
Tyrion sighed, swirling his wine goblet between his short, knotted fingers. The candlelight flickered over the dark surface of the liquid, reflecting the spark of frustration that danced in the dwarf’s eyes. Joffrey saw that expression and felt satisfied; irritating his uncle always brought him some pleasure. And yet, something about Tyrion’s gaze unsettled him. It was a look of restrained disdain, of forged patience, as if he were dealing with a boy too ignorant to understand a game far greater than himself.
"Don’t look at me like that," Joffrey grumbled, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "I will not trade my queen for a captive, even if that captive is my oh-so-valuable uncle Jaime," he added, imagining that Tyrion was displeased with Joffrey’s refusal to break his betrothal to Sansa.
"Oh, Your Grace is truly a romantic," Tyrion murmured, raising his goblet in an empty toast before drinking. "You almost make me forget that we’re speaking of strategy and not some minstrel’s tale."
Joffrey ground his teeth. Tyrion’s disregard irritated him deeply. He was the king, the Lion of House Lannister, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and his uncle did nothing but underestimate him.
"Sansa is my betrothed. My queen. I will not hand her over to my enemy like a lamb to the slaughter."
"Oh, how noble. And generous, too. Just as you were generous when you had your men beat her."
Joffrey felt his blood boil. He leaned back, clenching his fists, but Tyrion merely took another sip of wine as if he had said nothing of consequence.
"Watch your tongue, dwarf. You know very well that things with Sansa have changed."
"There’s no need for threats, dear nephew. I know full well what happens to those who dare challenge Your Grace’s iron hand. I, myself, have been taught to respect it," Tyrion smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But I suppose we’re straying from the point, aren’t we? Let’s set princesses aside and speak of war. Your rebellious brother still holds Jaime Lannister. And though I have failed to free him, I still need a plan. The question is, Your Grace—do you intend to do something to bring your uncle back, or will you simply sit on your throne and play at being king while others do the hard work?"
The flush rose up Joffrey’s neck like a tide of rage. His uncle dared to suggest that he did nothing? That he was a paper king?
"I don’t need to prove anything to you, dwarf. If my grandfather were here, he would have crushed Robb Stark already, and I wouldn’t have to concern myself with ransoms."
"Well, but your grandfather isn’t here, is he? He’s out there fighting real battles while you amuse yourself hunting cats and playing with your little sword."
Joffrey felt his fists tremble. He wanted to raise his hand and order the Kingsguard to drag Tyrion to the dungeons for his insolence. But then, his mother’s face appeared in his mind. Cersei would never allow anything to happen to Tyrion. Not yet. Not while they still needed him.
The king abruptly rose, stepping away from the throne.
"If you failed to free Jaime, find another way. And this time, don’t fail."
Tyrion tilted his head slightly, as if entertained.
"As Your Grace commands."
Tyrion straightened his posture and laced his fingers together, his sharp gaze fixed on Joffrey.
"You do realize that an alliance with the Tyrells would be beneficial, nephew. Margaery would bring with her all of House Tyrell’s military power, along with gold and ample food supplies. A union would strengthen the crown, and more importantly, it would strengthen your reign."
Joffrey narrowed his eyes.
"We’ve already discussed this. I will not marry Margaery."
"You can shower the Tyrells with gold, grant them titles and important positions at court, but in the end, a marriage seals alliances in a way that promises and favors cannot."
Joffrey scoffed and shook his head impatiently.
"You talk as if I need them. I am the king, and if the Tyrells want something, they are the ones who should bow to me."
Tyrion tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his nephew’s words, but his voice remained controlled, almost didactic.
"And what if one day you need to negotiate with Robb Stark?" he asked with a half-smile. "Have you considered that, if a peace agreement with the Young Wolf ever becomes necessary, one of his demands might be the breaking of your betrothal to Sansa?"
Joffrey twisted the ring on his finger and, for a moment, seemed to consider the words. Then his face twisted in disgust.
"No," he said, his voice dry and cutting. "You are mistaken, uncle. If Robb dares to dream of peace with the crown, he must accept giving Sansa to me."
His fist clenched as he spoke.
"He is a traitor, and she is my betrothed. The North must learn that it cannot defy me and then dictate terms. If I wished, I could have had her executed, as I did her father. But I am generous, and I keep her as my future queen. If the Starks expect any mercy, they should start by accepting that."
The silence that followed was heavy. Tyrion smiled, but his eyes studied Joffrey with the same interest a cyvasse player gives to the board.
"You speak with great conviction, Your Grace. But politics requires flexibility. A poorly placed piece can ruin an entire game."
Joffrey leaned forward, his expression hardening.
"I am not a piece, uncle. I am the king. And everyone else must move according to my will."
***
Catelyn
The cold wind swept through the Riverlands, carrying the scent of churned earth and burned wood. Catelyn Stark sat firm in her saddle, her eyes fixed on the horizon, where a lone figure emerged from the morning mist. The man wore a tattered jerkin over a mail coat beneath a billowing cloak, his chest bearing the sigil of House Frey. A scout, she realized, and her heart clenched in her chest. Finally, a sign of civilization after days of uncertain travel.
Wendel Manderly approached, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"My lady, should we approach with caution?"
Catelyn shook her head.
"If he bears the Frey sigil, there is no reason to fear. Bitterbridge may be behind us, but Riverrun is still our home. Let us meet him."
As they neared, the man dismounted and bowed.
"My lady Stark." His voice carried the accent of the Riverlands, but there was something rougher about it. "I am Galen Frey, in service to Martyn Rivers. We have come to meet you."
Catelyn arched a brow.
"Martyn Rivers?" The name was familiar, but not enough to inspire trust. He was a Frey bastard, and bastards always carried their own loyalties. "And where is the Blackfish?"
Galen hesitated.
"He has left with King Robb for the west, my lady."
Catelyn’s chest tightened. The West. Her suspicions were confirmed. When she had left to treat with Renly Baratheon, the war had been uncertain, but now… now Robb was marching against the Lannisters. There was no turning back.
"Did my uncle leave Riverrun in Edmure’s care?"
"Yes, my lady. He is defending the fortress and keeping the scouts watching enemy movements. Lord Edmure ordered us to meet you as soon as we received news of your approach."
Wendel Manderly exchanged a glance with Ser Perwyn Frey. The former looked relieved, while the latter maintained his usual grim expression. Catelyn, however, repressed the unease growing within her. Brynden had departed, and in his place remained only one of Walder Frey’s bastards to command the scouts. It was a detail that did not sit well with her.
"Take us to him."
The journey to Rivers’ camp took two hours. Along the way, the landscape unfolding before them was one of devastation. Burned villages, trampled fields, bodies left to rot on the roadside. The Riverlands had already bled too much for this war, and the sight made Catelyn’s heart grow even heavier.
Perhaps feeling the need to break the silence, Galen Frey commented, "I heard King Renly fell. I hope it’s just a rumor."
Catelyn turned to him with a cold gaze. "It is not."
The scout fell silent. Behind her, Wendel made the sign of the Seven and murmured a prayer. Perwyn Frey merely sighed.
When they finally arrived at the camp, set up within the ruins of a forgotten holdfast, Martyn Rivers awaited them with a solemn expression. Upon seeing Catelyn, he knelt.
"My lady, it is an honor to receive you."
"Lord Edmure has ordered that I be escorted to Riverrun, I presume?"
Rivers nodded. "He wishes for us to depart immediately. There is troubling news."
Catelyn’s heart pounded. "My father?"
"He still breathes, my lady. But Tywin Lannister has abandoned Harrenhal. He is marching west with his army."
A chill ran down Catelyn’s spine. "How many days until he reaches us?"
"Three or four, if there are no delays. We must leave at dawn."
The night was restless, filled with scattered dreams and bitter thoughts. When they departed the next morning, fifty men accompanied them. Along the way, Rivers shared news of Robb.
"He won at Oxcross. Stafford Lannister fell."
Wendel Manderly let out a laugh. "The lions running again? Is anyone surprised?"
But Catelyn only kept her gaze ahead. Victory was sweet, but the war was far from over.
"How did he take the Crag?" Perwyn Frey asked.
Rivers smiled. "He didn’t. He went around it. During the night, the army moved through a hidden path pointed out by Grey Wind. By the time the Lannisters noticed, it was too late."
Catelyn shivered. The direwolves had always been an omen, but the longer time passed, the more they seemed entwined with her children’s fates. What would become of Sansa and Arya without their wolves? What would become of her children without the protection given to them from the start?
Rivers leaned in closer to her. "They say that after the battle, the King in the North tore Stafford Lannister’s heart out and fed it to the wolf."
Wendel laughed, but Catelyn only sighed.
"That is an exaggeration."
"Perhaps." Rivers smiled. "But the wolf is real. And the old gods sent him to your son, my lady. Of that, I have no doubt."
She merely closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the wind howling around them. If the old gods had sent the wolves… why had they taken them from her daughters?
The night crept slowly over the camp, and the flickering torchlight cast long shadows upon the tents. The air was thick with the scent of horses and smoke, and in the distance, murmurs of soldiers on watch could be heard. Catelyn Stark had just finished washing her face in a copper basin when she heard hesitant footsteps outside her tent.
"Enter," she said, straightening. The flap was pushed aside, and Brienne of Tarth stepped into the entrance, her imposing silhouette framed against the dim light outside.
"Lady Stark." Brienne’s voice was low, restrained. "I need your permission to leave."
Catelyn frowned, setting aside the cloth she had been drying her hands with.
"Leave? Where to?"
"Storm’s End." Brienne kept her gaze steady, her hands clenched at her sides. "I intend to go alone. I have unfinished business there."
Catelyn sensed the truth in the tense silence between them. She needed no further explanation to understand that Brienne was speaking of Stannis Baratheon. The woman’s loyalty to Renly’s memory still burned within her like an open wound.
"You want to kill him," Catelyn concluded, her voice calm but filled with understanding. Brienne did not deny it.
"I should have died protecting my king," she replied, jaw tight. "Instead, I fled. They call me a coward, and perhaps they are right."
"It was not cowardice, Brienne," Catelyn said gently. "The one who killed Renly…" She hesitated, recalling the horror she had witnessed in Renly’s tent. "Whatever it was, it was not something that could be fought with a sword."
Brienne averted her gaze, her fists trembling slightly.
"I did not stop it. I did not fight. I fled," she said with a heavy sigh. "Now, all that is left is to correct that mistake. A vow cannot be broken."
"You swear loyalty to a dead man," Catelyn countered, kindly. "Your death will not change what happened. Nor will it bring Renly back."
Brienne remained rigid, as if standing at the edge of a precipice, afraid to take another step forward.
"I do not expect you to understand, Lady Stark. But I cannot live knowing I abandoned my king. If the gods make kings, as they say, then why did they allow Renly to die?"
"I do not know," Catelyn admitted. "I, too, lost a king. A husband. My lord. But I still have a son to fight for. The gods make kings, but they do not fight their wars. That falls to us."
Brienne pressed her lips together.
"The gods do not care, my lady. Just as kings do not care for peasants."
Catelyn sighed.
"Three kings remain now. Stannis Baratheon, Joffrey Baratheon, and my son, Robb Stark."
The mention of Stannis made Brienne’s eyes narrow.
"And what if you, my lady, decide to bend the knee to Stannis?"
Catelyn took a moment to answer.
"I do not know what I would do. But I do know that I am only a mother trying to protect her children."
Brienne lowered her gaze to her own hands, calloused from years of wielding a sword.
"I was not born to be a mother," she said after a long silence. "Nor to sew, nor to dance. What else is left for me but to fight?"
Catelyn studied the young woman before her. Despite the armor, despite the rigid stance, there was something tragic about Brienne. A woman displaced in a world of men, searching for a purpose that few would ever allow her to have.
"Fight for the living, Brienne," Catelyn advised gently. "Not for the dead. Those who killed Renly are also enemies of my son. If you seek vengeance, fight at Robb’s side."
Brienne’s chest rose and fell in a deep breath. She remained still for a long moment, then knelt.
"Lady Stark, you gave me shelter when no one else would. You defended my honor against those who falsely accused me." She lifted her chin, her eyes shining with emotion. "For that, if you will have me, I am yours, my lady. Your vassal, or… whatever you would have me be. I will guard your back, I will counsel you, and I will give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the gods, old and new."
Catelyn felt a tightness in her throat.
"Why me?" she asked, surprised.
"Because you were the only one to treat me justly," Brienne replied. "The only one who saw me for who I truly am."
The words touched something deep within Catelyn, and she recalled the look in Arya’s eyes—always defiant, always challenging the world in her own way. Perhaps, in another life, Brienne might have been like Arya. A woman forged in steel in a world that expected her to be made of glass.
Catelyn knelt before Brienne and took her hand.
"And I swear that you shall always have a place at my hearth and food and drink at my table, and I promise never to ask of you any service that would bring you dishonor. I swear it by the gods, old and new. Rise."
As she clasped the other woman’s hands in her own, Catelyn could not help but smile.
Brienne nodded, and there, under the flickering torchlight, a pact was sealed between them. A promise between two women who knew well the weight of loyalty, duty, and loss.
They crossed the Red Fork by the end of the next day, upriver from Riverrun, where the water curved wide and turned shallow and muddy. The Mallister archers and pikemen lined the crossing, their eyes scanning the riverbanks, watchful for any sign of movement in the underbrush. The water, dark and swollen from a recent storm, carried branches and torn leaves, but concealed more subtle dangers. The soldier guiding them, a Mallister veteran, pointed to the wavering reflections beneath the surface.
"Caltrops and iron spikes," he said, with a touch of pride in his voice. "Lord Edmure ordered them planted beneath the current to greet any enemy who dares to cross."
A chill ran down Catelyn’s spine. Her brother was preparing for battle. It was a relief to know that Riverrun was not defenseless, but war brought no certainties—only risks and losses. With a nod, she pressed forward, leading her group across the tributary.
Along the road, they encountered bands of peasants making their way toward Riverrun, some carrying bundles of clothes and what little food they had, others pushing makeshift carts loaded with children and the elderly. Many called out as they saw her, crying "Tully!" and "Stark!" Catelyn was reminded, once more, of the weight she bore. These men and women looked to her for protection, for justice. But the times were uncertain, and not even kings could promise such things.
They passed the Blackwood encampment, and farther along, those of other Trident vassals. The air smelled of campfires, salted meat, and polished steel, mingled with the odors of sweat and horses. Soldiers sharpened blades, stitched wounds, and shared stories over glowing embers, but Catelyn saw the weariness in their faces. Many had returned from battle, while others awaited new orders. War consumed all.
When the towers of Riverrun rose on the horizon, Catelyn took note of the bodies swaying from the battlements. They still wore crimson cloaks, the Lannister lion stained with dirt and dried blood. Some were freshly hanged, others swollen and rotting. A crow pecked at one of their eyes. Hal Mollen, ever watchful, stepped forward to confirm her suspicions.
"Lannister men, my lady," he said, his tone devoid of emotion.
Wendel Manderly let out a deep chuckle and clapped Perwyn Frey on the shoulder.
"Look at that, Perwyn. Seems the lions have learned to fly."
Perwyn laughed.
"Pity they don’t know how to land."
Brienne, however, remained silent. Her gaze was fixed on the bodies, her expression tense. Catelyn saw the unease in the young warrior and felt a pang in her chest. Death surrounded them on all sides, and though she had seen enough to understand its inevitability, she had never learned to accept it lightly.
As they passed through the gates, Catelyn saw her brother descending the steps of the castle in haste. Edmure looked relieved to see her and pulled her into a firm embrace.
"Thank the gods, sister! I feared the Freys had taken you, or that Stannis had made you his prisoner."
"I am whole, Edmure. But the news I bring is not good."
Edmure sighed and rubbed his face, his features worn with exhaustion.
"No news is good news in these times, Cat. Tywin Lannister has marched. And Stannis has laid siege to Storm’s End. He demands that they hand over Robert’s bastard in exchange for mercy."
Catelyn blinked, startled.
"Edric Storm? Ser Cortnay Penrose would never allow it."
Edmure nodded.
"And he is willing to die for it. They say Stannis offered terms, but Cortnay refused. For now, Storm’s End still holds."
Catelyn wondered if Ser Cortnay’s defiance was loyalty or folly. Risking an entire fortress for a bastard seemed madness, yet loyalty often demanded irrational sacrifices.
"There is more," Edmure said, lowering his voice. "The Lannisters sent envoys under a peace banner. They came with Ser Cleos Frey."
"And where are they?" Catelyn asked.
Edmure pointed toward the bodies on the battlements.
"Three nights they ate and drank under our hospitality. On the fourth, they tried to free Jaime. One of them crushed two guards' skulls with his bare hands. Another picked the cell lock with a wire. The third, a mimic, tried to give the order to open the gate. They were all caught and hanged."
A chill ran through Catelyn. Jaime Lannister had nearly escaped.
"And Jaime?" she asked.
“He got hold of a sword, killed Poul Pemford and a squire, gravely wounded Delp. But he was recaptured. He’s in the dungeons now, with heavier chains. Cleos Frey swears he knew nothing, but I kept him imprisoned as a precaution.”
Catelyn closed her eyes for a moment. If Jaime had escaped, Sansa and Arya might be dead now. If they were even still alive.
"And have the Lannisters sent a new counteroffer?" she asked, her voice wavering. "Any mention of an exchange for my daughters?"
Edmure hesitated before answering.
"No. From what they say, Joffrey has no intention of letting Sansa go. Even if the fate of the realm depends on it."
Catelyn felt anger rise in her throat, mixed with helplessness. Her gaze fell upon the bodies swaying in the wind, and for a moment, she wished it were Joffrey hanging there, his tongue swollen and his eyes bulging. But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing was.
The war was far from over.
Catelyn Stark entered the gates of Riverrun with a growing sense of unease. The air, damp and heavy, felt thicker as the wind swept across the vast river. The sight before her was both familiar and strangely unsettling. People were everywhere—refugees, peasants, landless folk—all packed into the streets of Riverrun, the stone houses now overcrowded, the central square turned into an improvised tent camp.
She stopped, staring at the scene with a tightness in her chest. Her family’s home, once a symbol of strength and pride, now seemed burdened under the weight of its own protection.
"We’ve taken in all we could," said her brother Edmure, approaching with a concerned look. "Peasants from the Vale, the Red Fork, the Reach. They all fear the war."
He looked at her, as if expecting approval, but Catelyn merely nodded without enthusiasm. She understood what he meant, but her heart was not at ease. “The last thing we need is more mouths to feed”, she thought. And with the possibility of a siege, these refugees could become an even greater burden.
"Edmure," she said, her voice low but firm, "we shouldn’t be spending our resources like this. When the Lannisters see—"
She stopped herself, knowing he was already aware of the imminent risk but feeling the weight of the silence that followed. Riverrun, so vital and strategic, was now full of a vulnerability their family could not afford to show.
But Edmure, as always, was resolute.
"It’s what we can do for them, Catelyn. And they may be of help if we need reinforcements. If Tywin Lannister comes here—"
She cut him off with a sharp look.
"Tywin Lannister won’t come. He’ll march west, not across our lands. You’re overreacting."
Edmure narrowed his eyes.
"I have no doubt. He will come if he has to. We must be prepared."
There was a glint of determination in his eyes, but Catelyn knew that beneath that façade of confidence was a man longing for a battle that might cost him more than just his honor.
The conversation took a turn when, in the distance, a knight in armor approached with a letter. Ser Desmond, an old family friend, looked even more troubled than usual.
"Lady Stark," he said, his voice tinged with respectful hesitation. "There is no news from Robb. He is campaigning."
Ser Desmond sighed with mild exasperation.
"The King in the North cannot be reached. He’s fighting the northern clans and has little time for anything else."
Catelyn bit her lip, trying to hide the frustration welling up inside her.
"Then why am I here? To go to the Twins and help Robb choose a wife? I cannot leave my father to die alone, Ser Desmond."
The knight looked at her with sympathy, but his grave expression did not waver.
"Robb ordered it. He said it must be done."
Anger rose in Catelyn’s throat, but she swallowed it with visible effort. It would be a violation of her duty to abandon Riverrun, to leave her father behind, just to help Robb choose among Walder Frey’s daughters.
“If I weren’t suspected of Renly Baratheon’s murder in the eyes of the Tyrells, maybe I could have done something” she thought. A small sigh escaped her lips. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could have tried to reach out to the Tyrells.
It would be a betrayal of the Freys, but... for her son, for Robb, she would do anything. Even risk her honor.
She lowered her head, deeply lost in thought. Her gaze shifted to Robb’s letter, still in Ser Desmond’s hands, and she saw in it a future filled with difficult choices. Far from their homes, far from her family, far from the safety of Riverrun, she might have already lost everything. The Tyrells could have been her last hope, but the weight of betrayal loomed over her.
"Edmure," Catelyn said, breaking the silence with a somber tone, "Tywin Lannister will not attack Riverrun, not with so many other problems on his hands. Don’t be hasty. This is not a war we can win like this, not without the numbers he has. Do not take on more than we can bear."
But Edmure did not seem to hear. He looked at her intently, his eyes burning with ironclad resolve.
"I will face Tywin. It will not be another disaster like the battle against Jaime Lannister. I am not the same man, Catelyn. I have the support of Tytos Blackwood and the Brackens. They will help us."
Catelyn felt her stomach tighten at the memory of Edmure’s last battle, when he had been so humiliatingly defeated. He was so certain of himself now, so hopeful. And she did not know if that was a good thing.
"You’re wrong," she murmured. "Death is not the answer. Nor more bloodshed."
But Edmure was far from yielding. When she could no longer convince him, Catelyn withdrew into the castle. Her heart was heavy with the weight of so many decisions piling at her door, but there was still one more thing she needed to do—see her father.
Lord Hoster Tully lay in bed, so frail now, so lost in his own mind. Catelyn looked at him with pain and love, her eyes misty. He seemed so small, more fragile than she had ever imagined. She stepped closer, her body tensed with anguish.
Lord Tully, upon seeing her, gave a weak smile, but his eyes were clouded.
"Lysa... my daughter..." he murmured, as if he had forgotten the world around him.
A sharp pain pierced through Catelyn. He was mistaking her for her sister, Lysa. She took her father’s hand gently, trying to soothe him. He seemed so lost, so far from the man he once was.
"Lysa isn’t here, Father. It’s me, Catelyn."
Still confused, he began to ramble about his arranged marriage to Jon Arryn, the late Lord of the Vale. He muttered about forgiveness, his voice trembling with pain, and Catelyn felt his sorrow as if it were her own. He no longer knew where he was, who he was, and there was nothing she could do to change that.
"Forgiveness... forgiveness for everything..." Lord Hoster murmured, his voice faint, before being seized by spasms.
Maester Vyman, who stood nearby, quickly moved to give him more milk of the poppy. Catelyn watched helplessly as her father calmed. The pain, though numbed, was still visible on his face—a reflection of his final journey, now inevitable.
As the drug took effect, Catelyn stepped onto the balcony. The sight of the river, its waters lazily flowing, made her think that soon her father would make his last journey upon them. She knew he would not last much longer, and the thought of losing him tore at her.
Maester Vyman appeared behind her.
"Shall I send for Ser Brynden, so that he may be here for his brother’s final moments?"
Catelyn looked at the maester, his words falling like stones in the silence. She thought of the Blackfish, always distant, always bound by his own code, but she knew he would come—for his brother, for honor.
But when the maester mentioned Lysa’s name, she shuddered.
"No," she answered immediately, her voice severe. "Lysa will not come. I will write to her."
Left alone, Catelyn sat down, her hands trembling slightly as she held the quill. She thought of her father’s last, disjointed words. "Damned boy," he had said. Who could that boy have been? A bastard, a squire? Perhaps a singer. Her sister Lysa’s mind had always been weak before men like those. The thought of Jon Arryn, so old—older even than her father—hung over the memory like a dark shadow.
She began writing the letter to Lysa, but her hands were unsteady. What else could she say?
The night at Riverrun was heavy, saturated with an almost icy silence, as if the castle itself had become an extension of her anxieties. Catelyn, with slow steps and a tight heart, walked through the halls of the castle. Her dark linen gown seemed to weigh more with each movement, as if an invisible current were pulling her, guiding her toward a fate she knew she could not escape. A part of her, in her melancholy, wished for relief, but another part knew the pain was about to reach its peak.
When she entered the chamber where grief awaited her, Catelyn stopped immediately. There they were—Utherydes Wayn, a man of austere bearing and grave countenance, and two Silent Sisters standing in the dim light, their figures cloaked, their faces obscured. The sight of such women, always distant from the world of the living, touched her heart in a profound way, as if the shadows they carried were not merely those of their garments, but of all that had been lost, of all that Catelyn herself feared to lose.
Their presence felt like an omen, and deep down, she already knew. But even so, Catelyn could not turn away.
"Ned?" Her voice was fragile, softer than she expected, as if she feared that merely speaking her husband's name would cause the world around her to collapse—or perhaps bring him back, delivering the news she longed to hear instead of the one she dreaded.
Utherydes did not answer immediately. He merely stepped forward, and the coldness in his eyes—the same Catelyn now saw reflected in the faces of the sisters—confirmed what she already suspected. It was the silence of death, the kind that settles when words fail to translate horror, when they cannot shape the inevitable into something less agonizing. And before she could protest, the man stepped aside, signaling to the Silent Sisters, who moved with an eerie lightness. Catelyn followed them, her feet cold, her mind filled with fear, until she finally reached the place where the remains of her beloved husband lay.
The sight before her was something Catelyn had never imagined witnessing. Ned's bones had been placed upon a bier, covered with the banner of his house, the direwolf of Winterfell, its fierce snarl a stark contrast to the fragility of death that had now claimed him. The banner—a symbol of hope and strength—was stained with the grief emanating from those wooden boards upon which his remains rested. What lay there was not Ned, but merely his broken shell, a cruel reflection of all she had lost.
Catelyn could not stop herself.
"Let me see him," she said, her voice low and trembling, but firm. There were no more words to deny, no arguments left to make.
She felt the weight of sorrow in her throat, the force of a loss she had never imagined enduring. But before anything more could be said, the Silent Sisters moved closer, with the grace of those who had seen death a thousand times, and pulled the banner away from Ned's bones.
What lay beneath was crueler than any words could describe. Catelyn froze, her breath catching in her throat. There was the man she had loved, the man who had always carried the strength of a wolf, but now was nothing more than a skeleton, his long, skeletal hands clutching some nameless longsword, one that lacked the power of Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark. The sight of a stranger wielding an ordinary blade instead of the great Valyrian steel sword was an irony that cut deeper than any sharpened edge.
Anguish turned to despair. Ned’s eyes—those gray, deep eyes that had once held all his emotions—were gone, as if someone had stripped away everything that made him human. They were now empty, as if the crows had devoured his essence. And at the sight of this cruel reality, Catelyn could not suppress the silent scream rising in her throat.
The pain of seeing the absence of his eyes struck her as deeply as his death itself. She stared at the space where they had once been, and a weakness overtook her body. Ned, her love, the man she had hoped would return from King’s Landing with some measure of dignity, had been reduced to bones, to something unrecognizable, something that would never again hold her with the arms that had once comforted her.
"I... I cannot do this," Catelyn murmured, and the truth of her own words shattered her from within. "This is not my Ned." But she knew, with cruel clarity, that death never returned things as they had been. It never did.
Utherydes, watching her with solemn, knowing eyes, spoke in a voice that seemed drawn from some distant place.
"Ice was not returned. Only the bones."
Catelyn shuddered, the final irony cutting through her like a cold blade. Ned’s sword, the symbol of his house, the embodiment of his strength, was gone. Nothing remained. Ned’s bones, now bereft of his ancestral blade, were nothing more than fragments of a lost man, a stolen memory. She swallowed hard, trying not to succumb to the fury building within her.
"I suppose I should be grateful to the queen for returning at least this much," she said bitterly, though she did not mean it. But then, Utherydes corrected her.
"It was Tyrion Lannister who permitted the return of your husband’s remains, my lady," he said, his voice grave.
The name Tyrion was a sharp knife, cutting away any last shred of hope she might have carried. Catelyn felt a wave of anger and disdain, but also an emptiness, as if a great portion of her soul had been stripped away. Tyrion Lannister, the source of so many humiliations, was now the one responsible for her grief. He was the one who, in some way, had granted her this bitter restitution. She wanted to scream, to curse, to demand justice—but as she looked upon her husband’s remains, a crushing sorrow stilled her voice.
She sighed, her eyes glassy, her mind fragile. She looked again at the Silent Sisters, who remained utterly unmoved. They were undisturbed, as if none of this was more than a distant echo. And then, a thought surfaced in her mind. She watched them—these women who seemed immune to the agony she felt—and a bitter envy crept into her heart. They could speak with the dead, perhaps even with Ned. And yet, Catelyn knew she never could. She never would.
"Take Ned’s bones to Winterfell," she commanded, with a firmness she did not feel. "Let him rest in the crypts of the Starks, where he has always belonged, under the watch of his ancestors. Let his sword and his body be kept among the wolves of our house."
She turned to Hal Mollen, who stood at a distance, watching with a somber gaze.
"Escort them, Hal. Allow no harm to come to them." Then, turning to the Silent Sisters, she ordered, "Take him home. Treat my husband’s remains with the honor he deserves."
When all had left, leaving her alone in the chamber, Catelyn could not shake the emptiness seeping into her soul. She looked at Ned’s bones one last time. No tears came, but her grief was suffocating.
The Silent Sisters had already departed, though she had not noticed them leave. She did not know how much time had passed before she finally sat down, her hands trembling, touching the bones of the man she had once loved. And for the last time, his warmth seemed to fade from her fingers.
The irony, Catelyn thought, was too cruel to comprehend.
Notes:
This is for those who want to get a sense of how I imagine Arthur Whitehill (yes, Superman from Smalville) 🤭: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NZmOYCDt68IIUsJpRO1Nhawl_vUsuOUk/view?usp=drive_link
Chapter 10: The Price of Blood
Summary:
"Kingslayer’s whore! Brother-fucker! You and Jaime killed the king! You and Jaime filled this city with bastards and hunger!"
Notes:
Good afternoon, everyone! How are you?
Well, I've been missing a lot from this fanfic, but you may have noticed that I'm only able to update one of my fics a week and at weekends. This week, this was the winner for being the longest without an update 🥹
I really appreciate all the kudos and comments you leave here! As I've already said, I could never have imagined that a Joff/Sansa fic would grow to such proportions. Thank you so much for your affection and patience ❤️
Well, anyone who has read the books will notice that this chapter was based entirely on a chapter of Tyrion's in A Clash of Kings, but modified to fit the narrative of the story.
That's it, I wish you a great read!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sansa
Sansa watched Myrcella Baratheon from the deck of King Robert’s Hammer, the largest ship in the fleet assigned to escort her to Dorne. The young princess, despite her tender age, held herself with the dignity expected of a royal daughter. Her smile wavered, but her parting words were appropriate, filled with courage and grace. Only those who knew her well could notice the damp gleam in her eyes, the hesitation in the instant her delicate hand slipped from Tommen’s grasp.
The younger prince, on the other hand, did not hold back his tears. His face was already flushed from crying, and with every new sob, his hand clung more tightly to the hem of his sister’s gown. “Don’t go!” he pleaded, his voice thick with childish despair. Myrcella, though on the verge of tears herself, merely smiled and stroked his golden hair, murmuring soft words of comfort. Sansa, watching them, felt a pang of pity. She wanted to allow herself a moment of tenderness for Myrcella, but she quickly pushed the feeling away. No Lannister deserved her affection.
The sea breeze carried the salty scent of the water, mingling with the aroma of tarred ropes and damp wood. The golden banner of House Baratheon, bearing its crowned black stag, fluttered atop the high sails. King Robert’s Hammer led the escort, followed by the Lionstar, Bold Wind, and Lady Lyanna. To Sansa, each of those ships represented a further depletion of the already weakened royal fleet. The thought secretly pleased her. Joffrey always boasted about the strength of his reign, but Sansa knew he was more vulnerable than he admitted.
If King’s Landing was already suffering from dwindling provisions and growing unrest among the people, the reduction of its ships left the city even more exposed. Joffrey had mentioned that many of the vessels sent by Stannis Baratheon had never returned. Worse still, Queen Cersei had insisted on reinforcing Myrcella’s escort, fearing that her daughter might be captured before reaching her destination. If that happened, the fragile alliance with Dorne would crumble, and the kingdom would lose a crucial ally against Stannis.
Sansa had learned all of this carefully. Joffrey, frustrated after a council meeting, had found her in her embroidery lesson. The king was not patient, and his impatience only grew when things did not go his way. He ordered the ladies to leave, wanting to speak with Sansa alone. She obeyed without hesitation, knowing that defying him would only bring pain. However, upon seeing him restless and irritable, she decided to act delicately. She was a well of sweetness, speaking in a soft voice, gazing at him with feigned admiration.
The effect was immediate. Joffrey always relented when he believed he had control over her. Between words of contempt for his mother and complaints about his counselors, he ended up sharing what he knew about the fleet and Myrcella’s departure. Sansa felt a small triumph stir in her chest. Little by little, Joffrey was confiding in her, even if he did not realize it. He spoke of politics in her presence, of royal decisions. It might seem insignificant, but it was a door beginning to open.
Joffrey had claimed to understand the importance of ensuring Myrcella’s safety. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, had so far limited himself to gathering his forces without taking direct action. However, if Myrcella arrived safely, he had promised to move his armies to the Red Mountains, creating a veiled threat to the lords of the Marches. That could force them to reconsider their loyalties or even dissuade Stannis from marching there. However, Joffrey knew that Dorne would only enter the war if it was attacked.
Tyrion Lannister, whom everyone said had orchestrated the deal with the Martells, had assured Joffrey that Stannis was an experienced commander who would avoid such a mistake. Yet, there was always the possibility that one of his vassals might act on his own. Sansa had noticed that this worried Joffrey on the day he mentioned it. He feared that Stannis was craftier than his advisors predicted.
Now, standing beside the king, Sansa looked at Myrcella, whose golden hair gleamed under the afternoon sun. When she felt Joffrey stroke her hand with his fingers, a shiver ran down her spine. The warmth of his touch spread through her body, and Sansa cursed herself. She could not allow herself to feel anything. Her heart had been foolish once before, and she would not make the same mistake. She needed to learn to control her emotions. Joffrey was a monster, and any lingering affection for him was nothing more than a foolish remnant of the dreamy girl she had once been. She maintained a serene expression, forcing a gentle smile, but inside, she waged a war against herself.
Joffrey moved away from Sansa with firm steps, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a royal banner. The wind lashed against the ships’ masts, and the sails fluttered like wings ready to take flight. He approached the fleet’s captain, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a face weathered by salt and sun, who stood waiting with a solemn expression. Sansa watched as Joffrey reinforced his orders, his clear, imperious voice carrying over the river breeze.
“You will stay close to the coast at all times,” Joffrey commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Until you reach the Claw Point. Only then will you cross to Braavos. Under no circumstances should you pass near Dragonstone.”
The captain inclined his head slightly, accepting the orders with the neutral expression of someone who had heard it all before. Sansa noticed that the captain did not protest, but neither did he seem particularly confident. These were well-rehearsed words, but reality was always different. The sea did not bow to the will of kings.
Joffrey continued, his lips pressing together slightly:
“If you see an enemy ship, destroy it or drive it away. If they are stronger, Bold Wind will protect Light Sea to ensure its escape.”
The captain nodded again, but Sansa noticed Joffrey clenching his fists, as if, deep down, he was not entirely convinced of his own words. He said nothing, but the brief moment of tension betrayed his uncertainty.
Sansa cast a sidelong glance at Tyrion, who remained slightly apart, observing the scene with an indecipherable half-smile. She knew this plan was his. But he was letting Joffrey repeat it so the young king could feel more confident. Sansa did not know if it would work. Joffrey did not like feeling insecure, and when he did, he usually took out his frustrations on someone weaker.
She took a deep breath and turned her gaze to the sea. The horizon remained clear, with no sign of Stannis’s fleet. An unsettling calm. From everything she had heard from Joffrey, she knew that Stannis’s ships were still at Storm’s End, held back by the siege. Ser Cortnay Penrose remained steadfast, loyal to the late Renly Baratheon. But for how much longer? The city’s walls would not hold forever, and Stannis was a stubborn commander.
Sansa found herself hoping that Stannis would march on King’s Landing before Joffrey was ready. But then, an uncomfortable thought crept into her mind. If Stannis reached the city and took the throne, would he find her? And if he did, what would he do with her? Would he protect her? Or, in the chaos of battle, would some crazed soldier do something far worse before anyone could stop him?
She pushed the thought away and forced herself to focus on the present.
Joffrey spoke about the preparations for the city's defense. He boasted about how his trebuchet towers were almost ready and how, in fifteen days, the city would be fortified enough to face Stannis. Sansa found herself hoping he wouldn’t have those fifteen days. But at the same time, when she looked at Joffrey, a tightness gripped her heart. The thought of Stannis killing Joffrey unsettled her in a way she couldn't ignore.
She tried to push the feeling away, forcing herself to remember everything he had done to her. But it was no use. When he cast a satisfied glance at her, certain that she was listening attentively, Sansa felt an inexplicable warmth rise within her. She hated herself for it. She couldn’t let herself be deceived. She had to learn to control her feelings for Joffrey. She couldn’t fall in love with him again.
On the deck of the Sea Swift, Myrcella knelt before the High Septon, her delicate hands joined in prayer, eyes closed, face lifted to receive his blessing. The afternoon sun struck the crystal crown upon the septon’s head, casting multicolored reflections that danced over the princess’s golden hair. The effect made her seem ethereal, like a figure from a fairy tale, a queen of the First Men consecrated by the Seven. It was a beautiful sight, and Sansa wished the gods would hear her. Myrcella was a good girl, and fate was taking her far from home, to a foreign land. She deserved their protection.
But for Sansa, the beauty of the moment faded quickly. The High Septon lingered on solemn, pompous words, his voice a muffled murmur beneath the restless crowd gathered around the harbor. The heat made the air heavy, and Sansa wished the ceremony would end soon. She saw little sense in so many words when the gods so rarely seemed to answer. How many times had she prayed in the sept? How many times had she begged the Seven for mercy, for an escape, for her freedom? And where were her answers? Her patience thinned with every passing moment. Yet she remained impassive, her expression softened by practice and necessity.
When at last the blessing was over, Myrcella rose and turned to Joffrey. The king stepped forward and looked at the captain of Robert’s Hammer, the ship leading the small fleet.
"If my sister is delivered safely to the Dornish, you will be knighted upon your return," he declared firmly. The captain bowed his head respectfully and accepted the mission. Joffrey nodded, satisfied, and without a backward glance, descended from the ship and strode back along the pier.
Sansa followed his steps with her eyes and, in doing so, noticed the stares of the people. Hunger and misery marked the faces of the spectators, and the eyes fixed on Joffrey were filled with resentment and hostility. Tyrion noticed it, too. His gaze assessed the crowd, studying them as a player studies pieces on a board. The people saw a well-fed king, draped in rich and elegant garments, while they starved. No amount of bread handed out or calculated gestures would erase the hunger from their eyes.
Sansa knew she had suggested to Joffrey that he moderate his feasts and distribute more food, and to her surprise, he had listened. But it did not seem enough. Dissatisfaction lingered, like embers smoldering beneath ashes.
The Lionstar and the Lady Lyanna were the first to pull away from the coast, their sails swelling in the wind. Soon after, the Sea Swift followed, its white sails fluttering like birds in flight. Sansa knew the choice of color was no coincidence. It was wise to avoid flaunting Lannister crimson when sailing through hostile waters. Myrcella, ever graceful, smiled and waved to the crowd as the current carried the ship downriver.
Prince Tommen, standing beside his mother, sniffled loudly, struggling to hold back tears. When he could no longer contain them, he broke into sobs.
Joffrey turned to him, impatient. "Stop that. Only women and cowards cry."
Tommen hiccuped, trying to swallow his sobs. Sansa clenched her fists at the sight of the prince’s flushed, ashamed face. Before Joffrey could humiliate him further, she stepped forward, offering a gentle smile.
"Even great knights and princes have wept in moments of sorrow," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, cried when he saw his beloved wed to another. And the twin brothers Arryk and Erryk wept when they realized they were destined to kill each other."
Joffrey turned to her, frowning.
"You care too much for Tommen," he murmured, his voice tinged with an irritation that sounded uncomfortably close to jealousy.
Sansa held her smile, even as her heart pounded in her chest. "He is your brother, my lord," she said sweetly. "And my future brother by marriage."
Joffrey did not reply immediately, but he also did not reprimand Tommen again. The young prince still sniffled, but more quietly now, holding himself together. Sansa stifled a sigh of relief. Later, when she was alone with Joffrey, she would ensure his mood improved.
On the river, the ships sailed onward. The Bold Wind drifted behind the Sea Swift, escorting its precious cargo. Finally, Robert’s Hammer, the largest and most powerful of the royal fleet, set off. Its sails billowed in the wind, carrying Myrcella far from King’s Landing, southward.
Sansa watched until the ships became shadows on the horizon, carrying with them the Lannisters' hopes of keeping Dorne on their side. If the gods were listening, let them protect Myrcella—and perhaps, one day, hear Sansa as well.
***
Joffrey
Dust swirled in eddies as the horses' hooves cracked against the stones of the road. Joffrey felt the weight of the golden crown on his head, the sun-heated metal throbbing against his skin. He lifted his chin, straightening his posture atop his gray palfrey, determined not to show weakness before the filthy, starving rabble lining the streets, kept at bay only by the threat of the gold cloaks' spears.
The silence was worse than insults. Between the occasional, solitary cry of "Long live the King!", resentment hung thick in the air, heavy and stifling. The people of King’s Landing were starving, but Joffrey could not understand why they blamed him. He was their king, and they should worship him. Were it not for his mercy, the city would have already been set aflame to rid it of the vermin infesting it.
Sansa rode beside him, her red hair caught in a delicate net of moonstones, her posture rigid as always. Joffrey watched her from the corner of his eye, recalling the affectionate way she spoke of Tommen. She cared too much for his younger brother. Perhaps she even wished he were dead so she could wed the fat little crybaby instead. The thought sickened him. She was his betrothed and should adore him, not pity a sniveling child.
As the procession passed through the Fishmonger’s Square and began ascending Aegon’s Hill, the air grew even heavier. That was when a woman emerged from the throng, slipping like a viper between the gold cloaks. Her rags were stained with bile and dust, her sunken eyes red with despair. She clutched something in her arms—a dead baby, blue and swollen like a fish left too long in the sun. The sight made even the spearmen hesitate.
"Your Majesty!" Her voice was hoarse, broken by suffering. "My son starved to death… My son died because of you!"
Joffrey stifled a shudder and averted his gaze. That was none of his concern. It wasn’t his fault if that woman had no food. He wanted her gone from his sight. But beside him, Sansa murmured:
"Don’t ignore her. If the people see you show generosity, their loyalty may be strengthened."
He pressed his lips together, irritated that she was giving him orders. But the crowd’s eyes were on him, and he wanted them to see his power, not his weakness. With a careless gesture, he pulled a silver stag from the pouch at his belt and tossed it toward the woman.
The coin struck the baby’s corpse and rolled to the ground, where a dozen starving men lunged for it like dogs fighting over a bone. The air filled with the sounds of grunts and fists slamming into ribs. The woman, however, did not move. She just stood there, trembling arms clutching her dead child, wide eyes fixed on Cersei.
"Leave her," his mother said disdainfully. "She is beyond help."
Something changed in the woman’s face. Despair gave way to fury. Her entire body trembled before she spat out the words:
"Kingslayer’s whore! Brother-fucker! You and Jaime killed the king! You and Jaime filled this city with bastards and hunger!"
The accusation made Joffrey’s blood boil. He yanked the reins violently, making his palfrey whinny and rear up slightly.
Joffrey felt his rage surge the moment something wet and putrid struck his face. The impact was strong enough to make him recoil in his saddle, and for a moment, he couldn’t even comprehend what had happened. The world seemed to fall silent around him. Then, the rancid stench invaded his nostrils.
Shit. Someone had thrown shit at him.
All eyes turned to him. Even Sandor Clegane’s widened, and Sansa let out a small gasp beside him, instinctively recoiling as flecks of filth splattered her sleeve. Joffrey blinked, stunned, and raised a hand to his face. He felt the sticky texture dripping down his cheek and onto his golden crown. The shock lasted only an instant before it was consumed by a searing hatred.
"Who did this?!" he roared, his voice sharp with fury. "I want the culprit! Bring him to me!"
A restless murmur passed through the crowd, but no one stepped forward. The City Watchmen’s spears still held the smallfolk at bay, but the tension was palpable, thick in the air.
"Bring me that wretch!" Joffrey spat, tasting the filth’s bitterness on his lips. "Whoever brings me the culprit will be rewarded!"
The promise of gold was always effective. Immediately, fingers pointed toward the rooftops. Joffrey looked up and saw shadowy figures darting between chimneys and parapets. The culprit was there, hiding among the rooftops, laughing at him.
Joffrey’s blood boiled.
"Hound! Catch that miserable bastard and bring him to me!" he ordered, not even looking back. "And if he wants to live, he’ll come lick this filth off my face!"
Sansa, beside him, raised a hand as if to touch his arm. Her expression was a mix of alarm and pleading.
"Your Grace," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, "let it go. It was just some fool, not worth your time. The best thing you can do is forgive him. The people will see it as a gesture of greatness."
The soft touch of her hand made him hesitate for a brief moment, but then he remembered. Sansa might be on his side now, but deep down, she was still a Stark. Was this what she wanted? For him to appear weak? For him to lose the respect of all, just as the despicable Ned Stark had lost his head?
Rage blinded him.
"I said catch that wretch!" he ignored Sansa, jerking his arm away from her touch.
The Hound made a move to advance, but the shifting crowd blocked his way. The gold cloaks’ spears were already pressed against the surging mass of people, but tempers had flared. The smallfolk shouted, insults were hurled into the air, and soon the curses against Joffrey and his mother grew louder.
"Bread!" a voice cried.
"Bread!" several others echoed.
"Give us bread, you little shit king!"
"Cursed incestuous bastard!"
Joffrey’s fury was swallowed by something far more dangerous. Something that trembled inside him. Fear.
It was one thing to hear insults while seated on his throne, protected by stone walls and hundreds of guards. It was another to hear the cries of an enraged mob surrounding him—a mass of wretched, filthy people, crushed by hunger and revolt.
The gold cloaks tried to hold the crowd back, but desperation made people bold. A man as thin as a skeleton tried to slip between the spears, screaming for food. A guard shoved him back, and another struck him with a shield, sending him sprawling to the ground. That was the spark.
The mob erupted.
People hurled themselves at the gold cloaks. The air filled with the sounds of breaking spears and battle cries. The smallfolk tore stones from the ground and hurled them at the soldiers, who tried to retreat but were already surrounded. Banners were torn down and ripped apart. Chaos took hold.
"To the castle!" Tyrion ordered, his voice thick with urgency. "Now!"
"Joffrey, come!" Cersei shouted, pulling her horse’s reins to turn him around.
Joffrey didn’t want to retreat. He wanted to punish those wretches, wanted to cut them all to pieces and make them regret every word they had uttered. But the sounds of clashing steel and men being pulled from their mounts made him hesitate. He saw a gold cloak dragged from his saddle and swallowed by the mob like a piece of meat tossed to wolves. He heard the screams of knights, the curses, the howls of fury.
The Hound had disappeared in the chaos. Other Kingsguard were struggling, trying to carve a path with their swords. Tommen was crying somewhere. Sansa had fallen behind, but he couldn’t see her among the masses. The retinue was falling apart. Joffrey felt panic freeze his chest.
"To the castle!" Tyrion shouted again, his horse spinning as he pointed toward the Red Keep. "Now, you idiot!"
Joffrey clenched his teeth but pulled the reins. His horse reared up on two legs before bolting forward. Joffrey tore through the mob, trampling someone in the process—he felt the impact but couldn’t tell if it was a man, woman, or child. It didn’t matter.
The Red Keep was just ahead. He had to get there. He had to save himself.
Ser Mandon Moore appeared at his side, sword in hand, striking down anyone who came too close. Joffrey rode as fast as he could, his heart hammering in his chest. The crowd tried to close in, but the gold cloaks carved a brutal path. He heard his mother scream his name, heard Tommen wailing, but he didn’t dare look back.
At last, the gates of the Red Keep opened before him, and Joffrey shot inside. As soon as the last soldiers crossed the entrance, the gates were slammed shut with a resounding crash.
Joffrey was safe. But chaos still raged outside.
The courtyard of the Red Keep was teeming with disorder and tension as the survivors of the riot gathered, exhausted and bloodied. Screams echoed as soldiers and nobles struggled to recover. The distant roar of the enraged mob could still be heard, reverberating through the streets like distant thunder heralding more misfortune to come.
Joffrey, still mounted and breathless, dismounted in a furious leap, his hands still stained with blood—his own and that of others. His fury was a whirlwind of blind rage and frustration. His voice rang out, shrill and imperious, as he shouted at the men around him:
"I want them all dead! Every traitor, every filthy reptile who dared raise their voice against me! Cut off their heads and mount them on spikes at the city gates! I am the king!"
He stood there, seething with rage. But his wrath was abruptly interrupted when Tyrion pushed through the commotion, his gaze dark with restrained fury. Without hesitation, the dwarf raised his hand and struck Joffrey with enough force to send his crown sliding off and clattering against the stone floor. The impact was so strong that Joffrey staggered back, his eyes wide with shock and indignant horror.
"You little fool!" Tyrion growled, his voice grave. "You brought this upon yourself! These men died because of your stupidity and arrogance!"
Joffrey felt his skin burn, and humiliation made him tremble with rage. His fists clenched, and for a fleeting moment, he considered killing his uncle right then and there. Who did Tyrion think he was to treat him this way? He was the king, not that ridiculous, misshapen dwarf!
"They betrayed me!" Joffrey spat, fury dripping from every word. "Those ungrateful dogs dared to raise their hands against me! They need to learn what happens to traitors!"
Tyrion narrowed his eyes, his face a mask of contempt.
"You understand nothing, do you? They don't care about treason or loyalty. They're starving! They want bread, Joffrey, and you fed them with threats and arrogance."
But Joffrey had already discarded the dwarf's words, his mind spinning toward something far more important. Suddenly, he realized something alarming: Sansa.
She wasn’t there.
"Where is Sansa?" His voice cracked like a whip across the courtyard. He turned to Ser Mandon Moore, his eyes blazing with fury. "You were her shield! If anything happened to her, I will make you pay with your life!"
Ser Mandon remained impassive, his voice monotonous as he replied, "My first duty is to protect the king."
"And I am the king! And I say you should have protected Sansa!" Joffrey roared, stepping forward menacingly.
Cersei intervened before the tension exploded.
"Ser Mandon did as he was commanded. But Sansa must be found."
The Kingsguard knights hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. None of them wanted to return to the pandemonium of the city. When Mandon refused to move, Tyrion scoffed.
"A knight afraid of peasants… What a disgrace, Ser Mandon."
Ser Mandon’s face twitched, his hand moving toward the hilt of his sword. Before the situation could escalate, Bronn approached, his presence languid yet menacing. Cersei then ordered coldly:
"You will go out and find Sansa. Now."
But Joffrey would not wait. His heart pounded, his body burned with an emotion he did not fully understand. Before he could rationalize it, he whirled on his heels and dashed back across the courtyard, leaping onto his horse.
"Come with me!" he commanded, and his guards followed.
The city was still a hell of chaos and screams, but he didn’t care. His sword flashed, carving a path through those who stood in his way. He didn’t even look at the faces. He didn’t know if he was cutting down a man, a woman, or a child. None of it mattered. Only Sansa.
And then, he saw her.
Red hair, flowing wildly. A pale shimmer amidst the filth. She was running toward an alley, pursued by a gang of men. His heart skipped a beat. Without hesitation, he spurred forward.
The door of a tavern stood open, and inside, Sansa was cornered. Men held her, their filthy hands tearing at her dress as she struggled, choked sobs of terror escaping her throat. Her face was wet with tears.
Joffrey’s rage became something visceral. He leapt from his horse and lunged with his sword. The first man didn’t even have time to react before his throat was slit. The second howled as Joffrey’s blade sliced open his belly, and soon his guards were taking care of the rest.
The silence that followed was broken only by Sansa’s sobs.
Joffrey watched her, seeing the shock etched onto her face. He had never seen her like this before—never so vulnerable. He knelt before her, ignoring the blood still dripping from his still-warm blade.
"My Lady…" His own voice came out unsteady. He was startled to realize how much he cared. When had Sansa Stark become his absolute priority?
He gathered her in his arms, feeling her tremble against him. And for the first time in his life, the iron king felt something other than power and fury.
He felt fear.
Fear of losing her.
Joffrey held Sansa tightly as he mounted her onto his horse, pressing her against his chest as the beast stumbled through the chaos of the streets. The scent of smoke and blood clung to the air, and screams echoed all around them. Sansa trembled, her fingers clutching desperately at Joffrey’s golden tunic, her eyes wide with the horror she had witnessed. The king felt his heart hammer in his chest, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the adrenaline of battle or from her nearness.
When they found Sandor Clegane on the way, the Hound was in a deplorable state. His white cloak, once a symbol of his position in the Kingsguard, was now torn and stained with dried blood. His gaze burned with barely contained fury, and he looked ready to tear apart the next person who dared cross his path. Yet, he said nothing—only exchanged a significant look with Joffrey and nodded, as if that was enough.
Crossing the gates of the Red Keep was an ordeal. Soldiers rushed to clear the way, and Joffrey had barely passed through when he spotted Tyrion pointing at him, murmuring something to Cersei. His mother looked terrified—her face was pale, and her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and relief. Without waiting for her to approach, Joffrey dismounted and helped Sansa down, seating her against a stone pillar. Her clothes were torn, red stains blooming where cuts had been made, and her face—usually so pale—was streaked with soot and fear.
"What happened?" Cersei demanded, her voice trembling. "Have you lost your mind, Joffrey? Running into that filth!?"
Joffrey ignored her, his eyes fixed only on Sansa.
"They threw things at me…" she murmured, her voice weak. "A man tried to pull me from the saddle. Clegane intervened… cut off his arm. But then… then he disappeared. And after that, they pulled me…"
She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening, unable to continue.
The Hound took a step forward, his mouth curled in a silent snarl.
"Filthy mongrels. I caught the first one I saw laying hands on her and made him wish he’d never crawled out of his mother’s womb, but the crowd was like a wave. They took her from me. I had to go back." He raised a hand and touched the side of his face, where a fresh cut was still bleeding. "Bastards gave me trouble, but I made it back to find her. She was already with the king."
Joffrey felt a knot form in his stomach. The blood pounded in his ears, but not from excitement—something else, something unsettling.
Before he could respond, a guard came running.
"Flea Bottom is on fire!" the man gasped. "They’re tearing down the storehouses, attacking shops, and setting houses ablaze!"
Chaos was spreading like wildfire. Lady Tanda was screaming hysterically about her lost daughter, sobbing and clinging to anyone who would meet her eyes. The city was in ruins, and Joffrey could taste the bitter sting of humiliation in his mouth.
"Bronn, gather men and protect the water wagons!" Tyrion ordered. "We can’t let the fire reach the Alchemists’ Guild, or everything will be reduced to ashes!"
The dwarf then turned to Sandor. "You’re coming with me. I need eyes on the streets."
The Hound let out a bitter laugh. "I’m going to find my horse. That’s all I care about now." He spat on the ground, but despite his words, Joffrey caught the reluctant glint in his eyes. The fire terrified him. It always had.
Tyrion, still covered in dust and dried blood, was taking control while Joffrey remained motionless. The anger inside him bubbled like a cauldron about to boil over. He should have been in command, he should have been the one giving orders! But here he was, reduced to a mere spectator while his uncle took the reins of the situation.
"Each member of the Kingsguard will escort a herald through the streets!" Tyrion commanded. "They will announce that anyone who doesn’t return home will be executed!"
Ser Meryn Trant frowned. "My duty is to protect the king!"
"The king speaks through Tyrion!" Cersei intervened impatiently. "Disobey, and it will be treason!"
Joffrey nearly snarled. His mother and uncle were giving orders as if he weren’t even there. The rage burning inside him exploded like thunder.
"Ser Mandon!" Joffrey roared. "Sansa could have been killed! You were supposed to be her shield!"
Ser Mandon Moore, as cold as ever, responded without hesitation.
"My duty was to protect the king."
Joffrey felt bile rise in his throat. He had thought about killing him before… now he was certain. His fist clenched before he could stop himself, and he struck the knight’s impassive face. Pain shot through his fingers, but the satisfaction was greater when he saw the man stumble back.
A moment of absolute silence followed. Everyone was staring at him. Ser Mandon wiped the corner of his mouth, where a thin trickle of blood had begun to seep. For a brief moment, Joffrey thought the man might draw his sword.
Then Tyrion let out a short laugh.
"Well, what a surprise." The dwarf crossed his arms. "Seems the king has a bit of spine after all."
Joffrey wanted to cut him in half. He wanted to rip that filthy tongue from his mouth. But before he could do anything, he felt a weak tug on his sleeve. He looked down and saw Sansa. She was still trembling, her eyes shining with something he couldn’t quite decipher.
He took a deep breath and looked away. The riot still raged outside. He would have his vengeance. The people would pay dearly.
But for now, his only focus was Sansa.
***
Tyrion
Tyrion rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders. The riot had left him exhausted, and his mind throbbed as he replayed every detail of the tragedy. What had begun as a display of power and control over the city had ended in chaos and blood. The High Septon was dead, torn apart by the very people he was meant to guide spiritually. Lady Tanda wept for her missing daughter, and Flea Bottom burned, its orange glow reflected in the dark waters of Blackwater Bay.
He recalled his order for the Stone Crows to find Timett. But the wildlings were stubborn. They refused to search for him, muttering that a true warrior would find his own way back. Tyrion scoffed. Loyal as they were, there were times when their savagery made everything more difficult. Rather than waste time, he ordered them to find Shagga instead. One of the Stone Crows laughed and warned that Shagga was sleeping, and waking him could be dangerous. When Shagga finally appeared, he grumbled about the city's weak ale. Tyrion ignored his complaints and entrusted him with a vital task: to protect Shae and take her somewhere safe.
Now, seated alone in his chambers, Tyrion took a generous gulp of wine as he watched the dancing shadows on the wall. The city was still in turmoil, the distant sound of screams and steel clashing against steel echoing beyond the Red Keep’s walls. He sighed, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see Shae that night. Duty came before desire—always.
When the maid entered carrying a plate of meat and bread, he picked up the butcher’s invoice. A long list of bodies crushed, stabbed, or trampled. He tossed it aside, feeling sickened. As the servants tried to light candles and stoke the fire, Tyrion drove them out with a growl. He preferred the darkness.
His mind drifted back to an earlier moment, before the riot, when Bronn had escorted him to where Cersei and her children were gathered during Myrcella’s departure. Cersei had deliberately ignored him, her eyes fixed on her cousin Lancel. Young Lannister looked utterly entranced by her, like a puppy eager for a pat. Tyrion had noticed how expertly his sister manipulated him, her green eyes gleaming like the emeralds that adorned her neck. He chuckled softly at the memory. Cersei thought she had everything under control, but he knew one of her secrets.
She had been making frequent visits to the High Septon, under the pretense of seeking divine blessings for the war. But Tyrion knew the truth. After a brief stop at the Great Sept of Baelor, she would cloak herself in a discreet mantle and secretly meet with Ser Osmund Kettleblack and his brothers, Osney and Osfryd. Lancel, foolish and weak, had revealed the plan to him: Cersei was using the Kettleblacks to build her own force of mercenaries.
Tyrion smiled. He had already taken his own precautions. Bronn had bribed the same men, offering them whatever sum Cersei paid. He doubted they had any real loyalty, but he knew they were skilled deceivers. Cersei believed she had three fierce warriors at her command, when in reality, she had nothing more than three empty drums, ready to echo the highest bidder’s tune. The thought amused him greatly. His sister suspected nothing, and that kept him one step ahead.
But there was another problem demanding his attention: Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish had left to negotiate with the Tyrells at Bitterbridge, but so far, no news had arrived. That was concerning. It could mean something had happened to him, or more likely, that the Tyrells were hesitating. Mace Tyrell was an ambitious man, but Tyrion suspected he would rather see Joffrey’s head on a spike than his daughter in the king’s bed.
And then there was Joffrey. The young king had always been arrogant and impulsive, but his obsession with Sansa Stark had become clear. Tyrion had realized it when Joffrey had left the safety of the Red Keep to go after her in the middle of the riot. A fortnight ago, he might have found it amusing. Now, he saw a problem forming.
The city needed a strong political alliance. The North was at war, Stannis was marching on King’s Landing, and a marriage between Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell was crucial to solidifying their position.
But how to convince Joffrey to abandon his fixation on Sansa?
Tyrion rubbed his eyes, feeling exhaustion spread through his body. War demanded sacrifices, and Joffrey needed to learn that. But how to convince him? That was the question that would keep him awake that night.
Tyrion’s mood was as dark as the night itself, and nothing Jacelyn Bywater reported seemed capable of lightening his burdened disposition. The riot had been contained, but the price had been high. The list of the dead began with the High Septon himself, a plump figure who had spent his life bestowing blessings and sermons, only to meet his end without the divine mercy he had so often promised others. He had been dragged from his golden litter and trampled to death by the enraged mob, his cries for pity drowned out by the roar of the starving. His body had been found mutilated, his eyes gouged out, his fingers severed—likely cut off so his rings could be taken. Tyrion reflected, with bitter cynicism, on the irony of starving men turning their fury upon priests too fat to even walk.
Ser Preston Greenfield of the Kingsguard was dead as well. The account of his demise was particularly brutal: attacked while trying to push back the rioters from the noble party, he had been pulled from his horse and beaten until his white armor was stained red with his own blood. The violence had been so intense that his features were unrecognizable. Ser Aron Santagar had met a similar fate; his body had been found in a gutter, his head crushed within his own helm like a shattered egg. These were the sworn protectors of the royal family—fallen not by the sword on a battlefield but under the heels of a furious crowd.
Lady Tanda wept for her missing daughter, Lollys Stokeworth. Tyrion had heard rumors even before Bywater’s report, and his expression tightened. The girl had been dragged into an alley, and her maidenhood had been torn from her amidst her own screams by more than fifty men. Later, she had been found wandering the streets naked, mumbling incoherencies, unable even to cover herself. Tyrion’s stomach twisted—not for her, but for the sheer futility of it all. He had never allowed himself sentimentality, but there was nothing to be gained from the brutalization of a simple-minded girl.
Tyrek Lannister was still missing. Tyrion’s young cousin—married in childhood to one of Lady Ermesande’s daughters—had vanished in the chaos, with no trace of him found. Rumors abounded: some claimed he had been slain and thrown into the sea, others that he had been taken by outlaws and sold into slavery. Tyrion felt a personal duty to find him. Tyrek was the son of Tygett Lannister, and Tyrion remembered how his uncle had been the only one to show him true kindness in his youth. If the boy was still alive, Tyrion would not rest until he was found. If he was dead… at least his family deserved to bury him.
Beyond these losses, Bywater reported that nine men of the City Watch had been killed and another forty wounded, many too injured to fight again. The death toll among the smallfolk had not even been counted but likely numbered in the hundreds. Chaos ruled over King’s Landing.
"Flea Bottom is burning," Bywater said, his voice grim. "My men tried to contain the fire, but there are too few buckets and even fewer willing hands. The mob has scattered, but only because they preferred looting over fighting."
Tyrion sighed, rubbing his temples. "And the loyalty of your men? Do they still obey?"
"For now," Bywater replied. "But I am concerned. Many of the watchmen were recruited from King’s Landing itself. A lot of them have hungry families and friends among the rioters. They hear their wives’ whispers at night. If there is another revolt… I do not know if they will all remain on our side."
That was bad. That was very bad. If the City Watch turned against them, King’s Landing would fall without Stannis needing to loose a single arrow.
"You know, Lord Tyrion… the people do not blame Joffrey. Nor even Cersei for what is happening in the city," Bywater said, with a frankness few dared to use in Tyrion’s presence. "They blame you."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Funny, considering I was not the one who ordered several of them killed."
Bywater did not smile.
"The people believe Joffrey is a boy easily swayed, surrounded by wicked counselors. And lately, he has shown more restraint. Many say he is infatuated with Sansa Stark, and that has kept him from his crueler whims. Now, they whisper that perhaps he is a good lad deep down. But you, my lord… you are the twisted dwarf who brought mercenaries into the city, who exiled men like Janos Slynt and Pycelle. You are the one who rules from the shadows."
The dwarf chuckled, but without humor.
"How ironic. The only thing worse than being despised by your own father is being even more hated by an entire city."
When he was alone, Tyrion summoned those he trusted most. Not his family, of course. He called Varys and Bronn. A eunuch, a sellsword… and a whore, he thought, remembering Shae. That was his circle of trust. A joke worthy of a court fool.
The meeting passed between cups of wine and words heavy with hidden meanings. Bronn, insolent as ever, helped himself to Tyrion’s dinner without hesitation. The dwarf scoffed and reprimanded him, but the sellsword only laughed.
"If Tommen were king instead of Joffrey," Bronn said, between bites and gulps of wine, "your troubles would be over, my lord."
For a moment, the room felt colder. Tyrion saw something deep and dangerous flicker in Bronn’s lazy gaze.
"And how exactly would Tommen become king?" Tyrion asked, his tone calm.
Bronn shrugged.
"Kings die all the time. War, accidents… the world is a cruel place."
The dwarf pursed his lips and took a long drink of wine, letting the warmth of the alcohol drown out troubling thoughts. He knew what Bronn was implying. If Joffrey died, Tommen would take the throne, and Tommen was sweet, easy to mold, as malleable as warm wax. But no. Joffrey was a monster, yes, but a monster of his own blood. Tyrion was not Tywin, but he was still a Lannister.
He pushed the thought away and focused on more immediate problems. The Kingsguard needed new men. Ser Preston was dead. Ser Mandon Moore, who had failed to protect Sansa adequately, would likely suffer the same fate at Joffrey’s hands.
"We need knights who are loyal. Men who can wield a sword and won’t bend at the first promise of gold."
"Good luck with that, my lord," Bronn said with a chuckle. "In the end, gold always speaks the loudest."
Tyrion eyed the sellsword and wondered just how loud his own gold would speak, should the right price be offered. But for now, he needed Bronn. He needed every ally he could keep.
The city was about to explode, and he was standing at the heart of the powder keg.
He could only pray he wouldn’t be the one to strike the match.
Notes:
Well, I've thought a lot about what this moment would be like in the book if Joffrey had feelings for Sansa. Joffrey is cruel and has many foolish impulsive actions, but he's not said to be a coward in the books when it comes to action. That was one of the reasons why Cersei seemed to prefer him to Tommen, she thought Joffrey was a real lion. I even think that Joffrey would hardly allow the High Sparrow to do what he did to Cersei and Margaery, he would kill the man first.
For those who haven't read the books to get an idea, that scene in the second season where Joffrey asks in a trembling voice at the Battle of the Blackwater if his mother has a message for him, dying to get out of the battle, doesn't exist in the book. Cersei forces the guards to bring Joffrey back to the castle. Before that, Osney informed her that Joffrey had acted courageously. Here's an excerpt from the book:Osney was all smiles as he knelt beside the queen. “The hulks have gone up, Your Grace. The whole Blackwater’s awash with wildfire. A hundred ships burning, maybe more.”
“And my son?”
“He’s at the Mud Gate with the Hand and the Kingsguard, Y’Grace. He spoke to the archers on the hoardings before, and gave them a few tips on handling a crossbow, he did. All agree, he’s a right brave boy.”
“He’d best remain a right live boy.”
- Sansa VI. A Clash Of Kings.
Chapter 11: In the Heart of the Lion
Summary:
“Shh,” he murmured, pulling her against his chest. “It was just a dream. I’m here. No one will hurt you.”
Notes:
Well, it took me a long time, almost two months... So I'll start by apologizing to you!
Life has been busy, but I'd like to make it clear that I'll never abandon this fic, it may take me as long as it takes to update it, but the next chapter will always be on its way! And so that I can communicate better with you, I've created a tumblr, to let you know when a new chapter will be posted or will be delayed. The username is: ladysansas21 🥰
I'd also like to thank all the new people who have come here, I've said it a million times and I'll never tire of saying it: I never imagined that so many people would follow this story! I thought it would have a small audience, and seeing all this support makes me very happy and excited about the future! Thanks a lot guys ❤️
I hope you like the chapter, have a good read!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Joffrey
Joffrey could feel the fury pounding in his ears, a dull drum echoing inside his skull, each beat hotter than the last. When the crowd’s screams died down, when the guards finally managed to push them back, all that remained was the dried blood on his skin and the memory of Sansa’s trembling body in his arms.
He had carried her to her chambers as if she were made of glass. The weight had been too light—far too light. That terrified him more than any rebel threat. The handmaids had rushed to them the moment they saw her. He had barely managed to entrust Sansa to their care. He had wanted to stay, to watch over her, but forced himself to walk away. A king covered in filth and blood could comfort no one.
The path to his own chambers felt as though it stretched for leagues. Inside, he tried to catch his breath, to reclaim something of himself. Maester Chettan, newly appointed, arrived with his mother—of course she would come, as always, with her inquisitive eyes and tight mouth. But Joffrey barely heard them. He dismissed them both with a curt wave and a look that brooked no argument.
“Leave me,” he said, voice hoarse.
One maid remained, quiet as a mouse, preparing the king’s bath. When the copper tub began to steam, Joffrey waved again, and she vanished from the room.
Alone, he undressed impatiently. His clothes, stuck to his skin, reeked of the riot—sweat, filth, sour wine, blood. The moment he stepped into the hot water, it bit into his flesh like invisible teeth. Scratches and bruises stung as if alive, but he didn’t flinch. He sank until the water reached his chin, dipped his face beneath the surface, and upon emerging, scrubbed furiously at his golden hair and face.
“Filthy peasants,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Vermin.”
He wanted them all dead. Every last one of them. The entire city in flames, if that was the price for a single hair on Sansa’s head. But not yet. For now, she was his priority. She needed to recover. After that, they would pay.
When he stepped out of the water, he dried himself quickly. His muscles still ached, but he ignored the discomfort. He dressed in lighter garments—a black linen doublet with golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs, hand-stitched lions, and beneath it, a clean, fine cotton tunic. A new leather belt with a silver buckle. He wanted to feel clean, worthy again. Presentable for her.
He was about to leave when a knock came at the door.
Joffrey frowned, eyes narrowing in irritation. His mother, probably. But the voice on the other side was rough and familiar:
“It’s the Hound, Your Grace.”
“Come in,” he said, crossing his arms.
The Hound entered with his usual grim presence, still dusty from the streets, sunken eyes visible above the steel shield he bore.
“Has the city been secured?” Joffrey asked at once.
Sandor shook his head. “Not completely. Still some looting in the alleys, but the rest of the men are trying to hold it down.”
“Then why have you returned?”
“I went to the spot where Lady Sansa fell. Found one of the bastards still breathing. Hid under a dead cart driver, played dead himself. One of ours saw him move. I brought the scum to the cells.”
Joffrey raised his chin, a crooked smile curving his lips.
“Is he injured?”
“His waist. Blade grazed him, far to the side. Nothing vital. I... I sent for a maester. Figured Your Grace would want him alive.”
Joffrey let out a low laugh, more a restrained growl.
“Smart thinking.”
A few minutes later, the king and the Hound were descending the castle corridors, their footsteps swallowed by the stone. The Hound held a torch, its flickering flame casting dancing shadows along the damp walls. The stench of moisture, sweat, and fear was almost tangible. At last, they reached the cell.
The man was chained to the wall. He was ugly as sin—broad face, scarred, thinning hair, calloused hands of a laborer. But his eyes were wide with terror—locked on Joffrey.
“Has he been treated by a maester?” Joffrey asked, eyes never leaving him.
“Yes,” Sandor replied. “Old Tyros did the bare minimum. Knew the king would want him... intact.”
“Good.”
Joffrey stepped closer. His gaze was cold, sharp. He knelt slowly, until his eyes were level with the man’s.
“So... you tried to put your filthy pig hands on my lady.”
“I... I didn’t know!” the man gasped. “I swear by the Seven! I didn’t know she was Your Grace’s betrothed! If I had—”
“You didn’t know?” Joffrey interrupted with scorn, rising and letting out a dry laugh. “A young lady, with hair like gold tinged by sunset, eyes as blue as deep sapphires... and you didn’t know?”
“I... no... I swear, Majesty...” The man was crying now. The dirt on his face mixed with his tears.
“Liar!” Joffrey roared, his voice echoing off the stone. He drew his sword in a swift motion, the steel glinting in the torchlight.
The man screamed.
But the king held back. He drew a deep breath. He would make this slow. Death would be a gift.
He sheathed the sword.
“Sandor,” he said softly. “Bring me the finest chair we have.”
Sandor smiled, darkly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
As the Hound left, the prisoner sobbed, muttering pleas for mercy through trembling teeth. Joffrey only stared, silent. With each passing second, he felt calmer. More in control.
When the Hound returned, he carried a wooden pyramid—tall, narrow at the top, wide at the base. An old punishment device, whispered of among the jailers. Joffrey nodded with satisfaction.
“Strip,” he commanded.
“Your Majesty, please—”
“Strip,” he repeated.
The man hesitated. Sandor stepped forward and, with a single tug, tore the filthy clothes apart, revealing a thin, hairy, trembling body. The Hound shoved him forward.
“Sit,” said Joffrey. His voice was almost gentle.
The man dropped to his knees. “Mercy, Majesty. I beg you. I have three children—”
“Sit,” the king repeated. “Or I’ll do far worse.”
Weeping, shaking, the man approached the pyramid. Tried to position himself. Hesitated.
Joffrey stepped forward, laughing.
“Coward,” he hissed, and pushed him with both hands.
The man screamed—a high-pitched, animalistic sound that echoed through the corridors. The sharp end of the wooden shaft slowly disappeared between his filthy buttocks. He writhed, but Sandor was already preparing the ropes.
“Tie him up.”
Sandor pulled ropes from the wall, bound the man’s ankles, and tied them to the upper corners, lifting his legs slightly. Gravity would take care of the rest, in time. Days of agony. A slow torture, with no cuts. Only the weight of his own body and the dull blade of humiliation.
“You’re only getting what you tried to give my lady,” Joffrey murmured as he stepped closer, whispering into the condemned man’s ear. “But your ending will be much... slower.”
The man wept. And Joffrey turned away.
“Come,” he said to the Hound.
Without looking back, he walked away from the cell, his breathing finally steady.
“Back to the streets, Hound,” he said, still entertained by the thought of the man suffering in his cell. “Show them the king still rules this city.”
Clegane only nodded, grim as ever, and disappeared down the stairs with tense shoulders.
Joffrey turned to Maester Chettan, who waited in the corner with lowered eyes, clutching a bundle of herbs and vials. His mother had surely sent him after Joffrey.
“Come with me. We're going to Lady Sansa’s chambers.”
The halls of the Red Keep felt quieter than usual. Perhaps it was the smoke from the city still seeping through the cracks, or the distant, sporadic screams of hysteria that rose from the streets. Or maybe it was simply the silence that lingered after chaos—like a heavy curtain drawn over the wailing of King’s Landing.
Reaching the chambers, Joffrey dismissed the guards with a wave. He wanted to be alone with her.
Sansa lay curled under linen blankets. Her red-gold hair spilled over the pillow like copper-stained silk in the candlelight. Her eyelids trembled, and her lips mumbled unintelligible words. Dreams, nightmares... he couldn’t tell. But he was there to protect her. To keep reality from chasing her back into terror.
Chettan approached cautiously, sitting on the edge of the bed. He murmured soft, rhythmic words as he prepared an infusion of milk of the poppy with honey. Joffrey watched every movement, impatient, until the maester touched the girl's lips with a silver spoon, letting the thick liquid drip into her mouth. She swallowed with difficulty, her brow furrowing in discomfort.
“That should calm her until morning,” said the maester.
Joffrey nodded. “Leave us.”
Chettan didn’t hesitate. He stood, gave a discreet bow, and disappeared through the door, closing it with a muffled creak.
The room’s darkness was broken only by three candles in bronze holders and the glow from the brazier. The air smelled of lavender, dried blood, and a faint trace of smoke. Joffrey pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. He reached out and took her hand in his. Her skin was cold despite the blankets, but her fingers twitched faintly at his touch. A slight contraction, barely perceptible.
Joffrey gripped her hand more firmly.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I dealt with them. No man touches what is mine.”
She didn’t answer, but sighed in her sleep. From time to time, she murmured broken words — “Father,” “Arya,” “no, no” — and they made Joffrey’s stomach twist. The past still haunted Sansa, but he would bury it, as he had buried so many others. She would learn to see him as her savior.
An hour passed, maybe two. Time lost all meaning. The night had thickened when a low knock came at the door.
“Who is it?” he asked coldly.
A guard replied, “Your mother, the Queen, Your Grace.”
Joffrey snorted loudly, like an angry dog, but did not forbid her entry.
Cersei Lannister appeared, cloaked in dark velvet embroidered with gold. Her blond hair was tied in an elaborate braid, her face composed, though the tension in her jaw betrayed her anger. She paused at the threshold and looked at Sansa for a long moment before turning her gaze to her son.
“How is she?”
“She’ll be fine,” Joffrey replied, without rising. He was still holding Sansa’s hand.
“You don’t need to watch over her sleep, Joffrey. You have other duties.”
“I’ll attend to them tomorrow.”
Cersei stepped closer, resting a gloved hand on her son’s shoulder. “My son, you must detach yourself from her. This fixation will only weaken you. We are negotiating with the Tyrells. If there’s a chance to secure a betrothal with Margaery, we must seize it.”
Joffrey swatted her hand away violently. She staggered back a step, startled.
“Stop interfering in my relationship with Sansa,” he said, his voice low and sharp as the sound of a dagger leaving its sheath.
Cersei stared at him, her eyes narrowing with restrained fury.
“You shouldn't have risked your life for a girl we don’t even know will still be your bride.”
“I will marry her,” Joffrey said. “And even if I weren’t, you know as well as I do that she’s valuable. A living Stark could still mean peace with the North.”
“I know that,” Cersei replied, folding her arms. “But when we heard she had vanished into the streets with rebels running loose... in that situation, perhaps it would have been best if they had... enjoyed her and discarded her after. That would have solved the problem.”
The rage inside Joffrey flared like oil poured over fire. He rose abruptly, and his hand flew before either of them could think. The slap cracked like a whip against the stone walls of the room.
Cersei clutched her face, her eyes wide with disbelief. She stood frozen, her fingers pressed against the reddening skin where her son’s fingers had struck.
They stared at each other.
Joffrey did not look away. “You should consider yourself lucky that’s all you received.”
The hurt in the queen’s eyes was plain. Her wounded pride trembled in her breath. At last, without another word, she turned, her firm steps echoing against the stone floor, and left the room.
When the door closed, Joffrey returned to the chair and took Sansa’s hand again. She still slept, unaware of the storm that had just passed.
“You are my queen,” he whispered. “And no one... not even my mother... will come between us.”
Outside the windows, the city burned in silence. But here, beside her, Joffrey felt a strange kind of peace.
Time flowed like cold honey through the hourglass of night—dense and slow. The candle nearest to Joffrey had already melted halfway down, its wick flickering gently as he kept his eyes on Sansa, lying among silk cushions and linen sheets. The trembling light cast shadows across the pale face of the young woman, who stirred beneath the covers, murmuring indistinct words. The maester had left calming drops and poultices, but even with the remedies, her dreams still hunted her.
Joffrey sat in a high-backed chair, his hand wrapped around hers, holding it with a firmness meant to convey safety. The leather of the chair creaked every time he moved, but he didn't care. He watched Sansa sleep the way a man watches a candle about to go out — with devotion and fear. At every moan or distressed sigh, he squeezed her hand a little tighter, as if by sheer will he could keep the horrors from reaching her.
The night wore on, and at some point, exhaustion overcame the prince. His head drooped for a moment, eyes closing — and then her scream tore through the silence like an arrow.
“No! No, please... Father! Joffrey! No!” Sansa thrashed in bed, her hair fanned out across the pillow, her eyes shut, her face contorted in panic.
Joffrey sprang to his feet and rushed to her, kneeling by the bed. With firm but careful hands, he cupped her face and called her name in a low, insistent voice:
“Sansa. Sansa, it’s me. Joffrey. It’s all right now. I’m here. I won’t let anyone touch you.”
She opened her eyes slowly, still gasping for air, still lost in the fog of the nightmare. When she recognized him, her expression softened slightly, though fear still trembled in her pupils.
“Joffrey…”
“Shh,” he murmured, pulling her against his chest. “It was just a dream. I’m here. No one will hurt you.”
She trembled like a leaf in the wind, and he held her for a few moments, feeling her heart beating against his own. When the sobs began to subside and her breathing steadied, he whispered:
“I’ll be right back. I... I’ll fetch the maester.”
She nodded faintly, not even opening her eyes. Pressing a kiss to her temple, Joffrey left the room in haste.
Maester Chettan answered the door with narrowed eyes and a scowl.
“Someone dying, Your Grace?”
“She had a nightmare. She needs dreamless sleep. Milk of the poppy,” Joffrey ordered, ignoring the old man’s tone.
Grumbling and throwing a cloak over his sleeping gown, the maester followed him back to Sansa’s chamber, where he administered the dose with practiced hands.
“She’ll sleep soundly now, Your Grace. No dreams. No memories.”
Joffrey nodded in silence, watching as Sansa drank. Her eyes soon closed again, and sleep took her like a warm blanket.
He returned to his seat beside her and took her hand once more. He sat that way for long minutes, maybe an hour. The only sounds were the crackling fire in the hearth and the soft tapping of rain beginning to fall on the roofs of the Red Keep.
Then, a knock at the door. The muffled voice of a guard:
“Your Grace, the Hand of the King requests your presence.”
Joffrey sighed deeply, gently pressing Sansa’s fingers before rising. He stepped out into the corridor and found Tyrion waiting, wrapped in a heavy cloak and inspecting a scrape on his elbow.
“How is Lady Sansa?” the dwarf asked without preamble.
“Recovering,” Joffrey replied. “She had a nightmare, but the maester gave her milk of the poppy. She’ll sleep now.”
“At least some good news.” Tyrion handed him a parchment, still damp. “The city has calmed. The riot’s been crushed. Here’s the list of the dead. The High Septon among them.”
Joffrey read quickly, the names seeming to leap from the page in fresh blood. He handed it back with disdain.
“We’ll deal with it in the morning. I’d like to kill every damned peasant in this city. They hate us.”
“Actually,” Tyrion said, adjusting his cloak, “I’ve been told the city hates me more than it hates you. For failing to restrain the King.”
Joffrey stared at him coldly. Tyrion met his gaze before saying:
“We need to talk about what comes next. And you will listen.”
Reluctantly, Joffrey gave a curt nod.
“First: Ser Mandon. You will not kill him.”
“He failed to protect Sansa,” Joffrey growled. “She could be dead!”
“I agree,” said Tyrion. “But competent men are already in short supply. Give him a scolding, a public reprimand if you must. But killing him will only weaken us further.”
Joffrey clenched his jaw, too furious to speak. But the dwarf wasn’t finished.
“I had a visitor tonight. One of my little birds who’s been near the Queen. He told me something... interesting.”
Joffrey raised his eyebrows, attentive.
“Your mother plans to smuggle Prince Tommen out of the city. Disguised as a page, hair dyed, hidden away in Rosby under the care of the sniveling Lord Gyles.”
Joffrey’s fists tightened. “She fears the mob. And she fears you, doesn’t she?”
“Both,” Tyrion replied with a bitter smile. “But I want my men with Tommen. Men loyal to me. Not just to her.”
“I agree,” Joffrey murmured. “Tommen’s protection is important. The battle is coming. I might die.”
Tyrion was silent for a moment, unsure what to say. At last, he spoke:
“Yes. And if you die, Tommen will be king. And most likely... receive your betrothed.”
Joffrey raised his chin, his eyes glinting. “I’ll stay alive,” he said — a promise, or perhaps a threat.
***
Tyrion
The night had drawn back into itself like a sated beast, drunk on blood and fear. The streets still reeked of smoke, sweat, and piss, but the sound of the mob had vanished. A trembling silence now reigned over King’s Landing, as if the city had forgotten how to breathe.
Tyrion walked with his hood pulled low, the sound of his steps muffled by the wet cobblestones. Bronn followed close, hand always on his sword hilt, though both knew that at this hour, even thieves and cutthroats preferred to stay indoors.
“You should be sleeping,” Bronn remarked.
“If I slept now, I’d dream of fools, fanatics, and traitors,” Tyrion replied. “I’d rather walk with you. At least your breath has the merit of honesty.”
Bronn smirked from the corner of his mouth, unoffended. “And where are we going?”
“The Great Sept of Baelor.”
The sellsword raised an eyebrow. “To pray?”
“To remind myself that I’m not worse than the gods. Just more honest.”
The way to the Sept was uneventful. The curfew had turned the city into a stone tomb. The few patrols they encountered gave only a brief nod before letting them pass—after all, the man’s stature might be small, but his shadow still stretched like that of a giant in King’s Landing.
Inside the Sept, flames flickered before the statues of the Seven. The walls still echoed with the crowd’s earlier screams, and the air was thick with incense and old blood. Tyrion stepped away from Bronn and walked to the altar.
He stopped before the Warrior and lit a candle. “Protect Jaime,” he murmured. “He’s the best of us, even when he forgets it.”
Then he approached the Stranger’s statue, its face veiled as always.
“And watch over me,” he said. “You, who belong nowhere, who are feared by all and welcomed by none. Your embrace is the most honest of all.”
Hot wax dripped over his fingers. He didn’t mind.
When they returned to the street, Tyrion pulled a neatly folded parchment from his cloak and handed it to Bronn.
“Give this to Ser Jacelyn Bywater in the morning. It’s the formal order. Fifty men to escort young Tommen to Rosby.”
Bronn took the paper but didn’t move. “And the informal order?”
“The true instruction,” Tyrion muttered, glancing up at the starless sky, “is to set a trap. They’ll take Tommen down the Roseroad. I want Bywater to quietly intercept and assume command of the escort. Let them take the boy to Rosby, yes—but he stays there under men loyal to me. And do whatever they want with Lord Gyles, so long as they don’t kill him. He’s rotten, but still breathing.”
Bronn laughed. “And if the queen complains?”
“She will. Loudly. Let her cry in the High Septon’s robes if she must. What matters is Tommen. Even if Stannis breaks the walls, even if Joffrey hangs from the Sept, we’ll still have a Lannister of royal blood alive and safe. That gives us time. Loyalty. Leverage.”
“And the knight she’ll send with the boy?”
“Whichever Kingsguard it is, he won’t be an obstacle. As long as no one is killed in front of Tommen. He... has a good heart. Better than any of us. I don’t want to tear that out of him.”
Bronn tucked away the parchment. “Bywater’s loyal?”
“More than you.”
“Offensive,” Bronn said, still smiling.
“But true.”
It was nearly dawn when they reached the last alleys. A patrol crossed their path, and Tyrion dismissed them with a word. At a fork in the road, Bronn stopped.
“Time for me to split off?”
“Yes. Mud Gate. Discretion. No noise.”
Bronn nodded and vanished into the night. Tyrion turned his horse and rode slowly through the silent streets, toward the pillars that marked Chataya’s house.
He knocked twice. Alayaya answered with a sly smile. “We were beginning to think Your Grace had forgotten us tonight.”
“My spirit is exhausted, my body sore. I’m left only to crave the sweetest poison.”
“Shae is waiting for you,” the girl said, gesturing for him to come inside.
Tyrion took the path to the manor where the young woman would be waiting. He hadn’t planned on seeing her that night, but he needed to.
Music reached him before the light did. A lute, unsteady notes, a man’s voice scratching through the melody with more ambition than talent. Tyrion clicked his tongue, already dreading what lay ahead.
The song came from the main hall. A tall, thin man was singing under the golden glow of a chandelier—Symon Silver Tongue, a washed-up singer with a voice driven more by dreams than skill. He choked off the final note when he saw Tyrion.
“Lord Tyrion! An unexpected honor...”
“I’ve heard your voice before, singer. I don’t recall asking to hear it again.”
Symon bowed quickly. “Just keeping the lady entertained, Lord Tyrion.”
“With your voice, you might drive her to despair.”
Shae appeared at the door, wrapped in a fine silver robe. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of him, and she crossed the room swiftly, taking his hand.
“You frightened my favorite singer. Such cruelty!”
Tyrion kept his gaze fixed on Symon. “I hope you know what happens to men who remember faces they ought to forget.”
“I... I would never tell, my lord. I swear it by the Seven.”
“If I cut out your tongue, will you sing with your eyes?”
Symon went pale. Shae pulled him by the arm and led him upstairs, already laughing.
“Stop that,” she said when they were alone in the bedroom. “You made him white as milk. I bet he’ll sing off-key for the next seven moons.”
“Better off-key here than at court,” Tyrion muttered. “If anyone finds out where you are, it could be the end.”
“You always say that. Yet you always return.”
The room was warm, and the scent of sweet oils floated in the air. Shae pulled off his cloak and let it fall to the floor. Her hands slid over his chest, his back. Tyrion surrendered to her touch, his eyes fixed on her face, as if etching every feature into memory.
She kissed him—not with the urgency of someone eager to please, but with the tenderness of someone who knew his limits and chose to ignore them.
Their clothes came off slowly, between teasing smiles and soft provocations. Shae guided him to the bed with a mix of strength and grace, and Tyrion lay down, pulling her on top of him. When she mounted him, he let out a soft moan, gripping her thighs with hands small but strong. Her hips moved with the rhythm of an ancient dance, and her eyes held him like invisible chains.
Her skin was warm and smooth as satin. Her scent—sweet, feminine, human—drove out the stench of death that had clung to his nostrils since the riot. He nestled into her neck, feeling her heartbeat under her skin.
For a moment, he wasn’t the Hand of the King. Not the dwarf. Not the monster’s son. Just a man. And she, a woman who smiled at him like that was enough.
Tyrion held her face in his hands as they reached their peak. Her eyes closed, her lips parted in a sigh, and he let himself go, lost in sensations that freed him from the city, the war, the family. For a few moments, the world ceased to exist—except for her.
Then they lay side by side, and he nestled against the warmth of her body like a child beneath a blanket. He felt safe. That, in itself, was a miracle.
“You’re the only thing in this damned world that still feels clean,” he whispered.
Shae smiled and rested her face against his chest.
“Then don’t dirty me, my lion.”
Tyrion closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. He knew the city would summon him again before dawn.
After a while, unable to rest, he rose and decided to get some air in the gardens.
The mansion's garden was cloaked in silence, broken only by the murmur of water threading through the flower beds and the whisper of a gentle breeze among lemon and olive leaves. Tyrion felt the weight of the night on his shoulders as he walked over the damp gravel, alone. His hands clasped behind his back, his steps slow. The wine still warmed his blood, but it was restlessness that truly moved him.
He thought of Jaime, still a captive, and of the chaos Cersei’s schemes could unleash. Lancel had revealed more than he should—or exactly what she wanted Tyrion to know? He couldn’t tell. He no longer trusted even Varys’s silence, which in itself was dangerous. Varys hiding something? That was as likely as breathing. Still, it disturbed him. The eunuch’s silence could be as deadly as a poisoned blade.
A sudden gust of putrid stench interrupted his thoughts. He turned with a grimace and saw Shae standing at the garden door, wearing the silver robe he had given her. The moonlight shimmered on the light fabric, outlining her figure. Beside her stood a grotesque figure: a burly man in beggar’s rags, barefoot, his feet crusted in black grime, his face hidden beneath a hood, and a thin, filthy beard. A wooden bowl hung from his neck where a septon might carry a crystal.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me this is the new house septon.”
Shae smiled and replied, “Varys came to see you, my lord.”
Tyrion blinked, surprised. “And here I thought I was getting better at disguises.”
Shae grinned. “A whore must recognize a man, no matter his clothing. Our lives sometimes depend on it.”
Varys lifted his head, revealing dark eyes beneath the hood’s shadow. “Forgive the hour, but news doesn’t wait.”
“Then come,” said Tyrion. “Tell me what was so urgent you had to cross the city smelling like a latrine.”
“Storm’s End has fallen. Ser Cortnay Penrose is dead.”
The impact was immediate. Tyrion’s hand tightened around his wine cup, and in a sudden gesture, he hurled it against the nearest wall. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the garden.
“Damn it! Penrose could have held out for months! And Stannis…” His chest heaved. “Now he’ll march on us. We’re next.”
Shae stepped closer, silently placing a hand on his shoulder. There was something steady in her touch, an unexpected courage.
“I’m not afraid,” she said calmly.
Tyrion turned to face her. “You should be. You’re not safe here. None of us are. What happened during the riot could happen again. The High Septon murdered, Lollys raped senseless, Ser Aron smashed like a broken egg… and you think walls and guards will be enough?”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to run from you. I want to be with you. Wear the dresses you gave me, the jewels. Have children, feasts, kisses at sunrise.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. What she said was sweet—and impossible.
“I can’t give you that. The queen is my sister. My father and Jaime love her. I don’t. But they do. And I’m not strong enough to face them alone. Against the Starks, I have the Lannisters. Against my family... I’m just me.”
Shae crossed her arms. “Then kill your sister.”
Tyrion gave a bitter smile. “You say that as if you were swatting a fly. Killing Cersei would bring a curse upon us. And Jaime would never forgive me.”
He took a deep breath. “I need to get you out of here. I thought of hiding you in the Red Keep. In the kitchens. You’d be safer there.”
Shae’s face darkened. “Kitchens? A scullion? You want to hide me among pots and soot? Trade my silk for rags? I am your woman, Tyrion.”
“And I want to keep you alive. You can have silk again. You can have everything. After we win.”
She stepped away, her eyes brimming. “You think my life matters more than my pride, but you don’t understand. My father made me wash dishes as a child. Then sold me to the first man who’d pay. I ran from that. And now you ask me to go back.”
Tyrion tried to touch her face. She pulled away. “Shae…”
“No.”
Something broke in him. In an unthinking gesture, his hand struck her face. The sound was sharp, the pain clear. But she didn’t cry out. She lowered her eyes, lips trembling.
“Forgive me,” he said in a near whisper. “I shouldn’t…”
She nodded silently. He kissed the cheek he had just wounded. “I’m not your father. I swear.”
She murmured, “I only want you.”
Tyrion drew in a labored breath. “When I was young, I fell in love with a girl. A peasant, I thought. I married her. It was all a farce. Jaime arranged it for sport. My father ordered that she be… raped. By the soldiers. And that I be the last. So I’d never forget what she was.”
Shae clenched her fists, speechless.
“Since then, I’ve never known what’s real. With you, I want to believe. But I can’t risk your life just to pretend we’re happy.”
She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was calm. “Take me there, then. The kitchens. For a while. But don’t ask me to smile.”
He nodded. “That’s all I can ask.”
He kissed her once more, on the forehead. “I’ll come back for you.”
Varys awaited him at the stables. The moon had already vanished behind the city’s towers, but Tyrion knew the night was far from over.
The sound of hooves on the muddy street was a muffled rhythm that could not quiet Tyrion’s thoughts. Each step of his horse seemed to pull him deeper into a pit of unrest that the previous night’s wine had failed to numb. The confession he had made to Shae echoed in his mind like a war drum. Tysha.
The name rang through his bones like thunder on the ramparts of Dragonstone. Tysha, the peasant girl he had loved—or thought he loved—and to whom he had given everything, even the truth of himself. He had told Shae, in a fit of wretched honesty, how he had been deceived, how Jaime had tricked him, how his father had punished him with a cruelty no man should endure. He had told Shae everything, even the vilest details, as if by ripping himself open, he might find forgiveness or solace.
But now, riding beside Varys down a street still smeared with blood and cinders, he wasn’t sure why he had done it. Was it compassion he sought? Redemption? Or worse, did he actually hope she would love him—after the truth?
“True love,” he muttered to himself, with a bitter smile.
"Did you say something, my lord?" Varys turned his head, gentle eyes, mellifluous voice.
"Nothing worth repeating," Tyrion replied. He felt a sharp jolt in the elbow he had injured during the riot. It was swollen, throbbing. Maester Chettan had applied a strong-smelling salve, but Tyrion trusted him no more than he would trust a dagger in the back—especially after what Pycelle had revealed through his betrayal.
Maesters and their chains… nothing but men in golden shackles, bound to other men's interests. He preferred snakes like Varys—at least snakes made no pretense of innocence.
"We were speaking of Shae," he said at last. "I need to bring her inside the castle without my sweet sister finding out."
Varys pursed his lips. "The kitchens were once an option, but I fear her scent would be far less troubling than the eyes and ears that boil in that broth."
"You know what they say about kitchens and curiosity, don’t you?" Tyrion gave him a wary look. "Shae would attract attention. Young, beautiful, a hint of the foreign… she wouldn’t last a week without being harassed by halfwits and interrogated by sharp tongues. Even her wine wouldn’t be safe."
"Only a fool would drink anything offered from the Red Keep’s hearths," Varys agreed with a nod. "But there is an alternative. Lady Tanda’s daughter, Lollys, has been left… how shall I put it… particularly fragile since today’s events. She is constantly attended by a maid. A woman who, according to my sources, has been diverting her lady mother’s jewels with troubling frequency."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "You're saying you can get rid of the thief?"
"With the proper… incentive. And a subtle accusation. Yes, it is quite possible."
"Shae as Lollys’s maid." Tyrion considered. "She’d get better clothing. Be protected. Close enough to me without drawing suspicion. And Cersei has no interest in that family of blubbering buffoons."
"Indeed, my lady finds them insufferable. Young Lollys spent the day weeping after emerging from her shock, refusing to leave her room. Some say she will never be the same. A discreet maid might prove necessary. And convenient."
Tyrion bit his lower lip. "But my tower is watched. One misstep and everything's lost. One wrong move and Cersei will sniff it out like a bitch on scent."
"Still, I might be able to ease certain… entries," said Varys with theatrical flair. "There are passages. Many do not know, or pretend not to. The castle has deeper roots than the foundations you see. Maegor the Cruel had the builders slain to keep the secrets safe."
"What are you saying?"
"That I can bring your lady to your chambers unseen, if that is your wish."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "You knew of these passages and never mentioned them?"
"The builders were killed for a reason, my lord. Not even kings know all the doors shadows pass through."
"Then show me one."
Varys smiled, slow as poison. "With all respect, Lord Tyrion, there are secrets that must remain kept."
"Kept from me?" Tyrion’s voice turned to ice. "I am the Hand of the King. Or have you forgotten?"
"I could never forget." Varys’s smile stayed in place, but a strange light danced in his eyes. "But even hands can fail when they try to grasp shadows."
"If the secrets are yours, then I fear we stand on opposite sides." Tyrion reined in his horse and stared him down. "I demand loyalty, Varys. Complete. No shadows between us."
Varys sighed. "Do you doubt my loyalty, then?"
"I trust you as if you were my own blood," Tyrion replied, with acid sarcasm.
The eunuch let out a high, echoing laugh. "And family always comes first, doesn’t it?"
"Almost always," Tyrion retorted, and spurred his horse.
The silence between them lingered until they reached the side gate leading to the lesser quarters of the Red Keep. There, as they dismounted, Tyrion asked:
"And what of Ser Cortnay Penrose?"
"Dead men tell no tales," Varys said softly. "They say he jumped from the tower. Took his own life."
"But Ser Cortnay had just challenged Stannis to single combat. He didn’t strike me as the sort to leap to his death on the same day he threw down a gauntlet."
Varys waved a hand, as if brushing aside mist. "Some say despair overtook him. Others that he was pushed. I only observe." He paused. "Do you believe in magic?"
The silence that followed was different—dense, nearly reverent.
"I know I ask a hard thing. A man may not believe in fire, yet still be burned. I met magic in Myr. When I was a boy, I was sold by a troupe master to a sorcerer. They drugged me, cut me, burned what remained in a brazier, while he chanted words I did not know."
Tyrion stared, speechless.
"There was a voice," Varys continued. "A voice from the flames. It was not the man’s. I do not know if it was god, demon, or something worse. But it answered the call. Since that day, I have hated magic. Not out of fear, but because I know it is real."
Tyrion said nothing for a long while. The weight of the tale settled on him like a cloak of lead.
"You think Stannis uses such arts?"
"I don’t know. But Renly died strangely. Ser Cortnay died right after challenging him. There are shadows in this world, my lord. And some have eyes. If Stannis made a pact with such forces… I want him dead."
"I believe in steel," said Tyrion, "in gold and in wit. Dragons existed. I’ve seen their skulls. But voices from braziers? Perhaps the sorcerer was simply playing a trick on a terrified boy."
"Perhaps." Varys smiled again. "But that doubt may prove costly."
"More likely," Tyrion murmured, "Stannis hired an experienced killer. There are good assassins in the Free Cities. And Stannis has both gold and foreign allies."
"Such a killer would need to be exceptional."
"Does such a one exist?"
"He does."
Varys said no more, and Tyrion did not ask.
Later they spoke of the fall of Storm’s End. Tarly had won the Battle of Bitterbridge. Caswell had shut himself inside Coldmoat. The southern lords were scattering. Dorne remained silent. And Lord Tywin… where was Lord Tywin? Littlefinger had gone south and sent no word. Dead? Captured?
Tyrion took a deep breath. The events of the day cast an even darker shadow. Stannis was advancing, and all King’s Landing had was a spoiled boy for a king and a court of poisoners.
And Joffrey… in love with Sansa Stark, when he needed to marry another.
Tyrion let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"I'm hated by everyone," he said. "And yet I'm the only thing standing between this city and chaos."
Varys nodded with regret. "It is a burden few would carry with such grace."
"Grace doesn't pay debts, Varys. Nor does it win wars."
"But wit might."
And shadows, Tyrion thought, as he passed through the gates of the Red Keep.
***
Sansa
The world around Sansa spun with shadows and echoes — visions melding like ink spilling in water. She was lying down, though she couldn’t recall when she had been placed there. The only clear thought she could cling to was the certainty that Joffrey had saved her.
She had seen it. Seen it with her own eyes. The dull thud of his fist against Ser Mandon’s face still seemed to vibrate in her skin, as if the impact had pierced her chest. She remembered vaguely the sound of armor striking stone. After that came the warmth of his hands, gripping hers, and the shouts of the men around her faded into distant murmurs. Joffrey had gathered her in his arms and carried her back to the castle, but the journey was shrouded in fog. Sansa didn’t know if they had crossed streets or corridors, whether he had spoken a word — all she remembered was the steadiness of his hold.
The next vision was of her chamber: her flowered tapestries, the satin pillows — all familiar, all out of place. Three handmaids hurried in, summoned by someone unknown. Their faces were not the ones she was used to, but they asked no questions. There was blood beneath her fingernails, small cuts along her arms and legs, her feet scratched by stones — or perhaps hands. Someone said she needed a bath.
She did not resist.
The handmaids undressed her carefully. Her blue nightgown was torn and stained with dust, sweat, and dried blood. The air stung her open wounds, but she did not protest. The women led her to a copper tub filled with warm water, scented with lavender and rose petals. The water felt like another world. Sansa sank in up to her shoulders and remained still. Her eyes fixed on the wall and stayed there.
“It’ll sting a bit,” one of the handmaids murmured, cleaning a scratch on her thigh. But Sansa barely felt it.
After the bath, they dressed her in a clean white linen gown. They laid her beneath the sheets and said something about rest, but Sansa was no longer listening. The warmth of the bed was both a relief and a torment — it made her feel her body, and her body ached. Her flesh burned, but her soul burned worse.
She fell asleep — or at least her body did. Her mind remained adrift.
The sound of the door creaking woke her, soft as leaves brushing the ground. The curtain swayed with a draft, and she opened her eyes a sliver. Her vision was blurred. Someone was there — a tall, golden figure, accompanied by a smaller one in the grey robes of a maester.
It was Joffrey. She recognized the shine of his hair, the shape of his mouth, the green eyes wide with an expression she could not read — anger, perhaps, or worry. The maester whispered, then held out a goblet. Sansa tasted the bitterness of the medicine on her tongue, but did not move. Joffrey’s lips were forming words she could not hear.
She felt her hand being taken. Warm, firm. His, without a doubt. He sat in a chair beside her bed and said nothing more. He just stayed. For a while, his presence comforted her. Or maybe it was just another dream.
Sansa no longer knew what was real.
She dreamed.
She was in the crypts of Winterfell, chasing Arya, who kept blowing out candles just to frighten her. The air was cold, and the tombs seemed to watch her. She heard her father’s voice, soft as always, telling her she should not be there, that the place was meant for the dead. When she opened her eyes, Joffrey was still there, slumped in the chair, neck bent, mouth slightly open. His hand still held hers.
She fell asleep again.
This time, she dreamed of her real father. He was in the godswood, sword across his knees, eyes full of sorrow. “He is not the man for you, little one,” he said, and then vanished, swallowed by falling leaves that drifted like snow.
She awoke to the sound of voices. The door was ajar, and she saw Joffrey standing, gesturing furiously. His mother, Queen Cersei, stood outside. Her voice was low but sharp. His was desperate. Sansa closed her eyes before they noticed she had woken.
She slept again — or thought she did. This time the dream was dark, suffocating.
She was surrounded by men — shadows, shapes, harsh voices and cruel laughter. They tore her dress as if it were paper, and she screamed, screamed for her father, for Joffrey, but he did not come. Her eyes searched the sky, but found only broken tiles and smoke.
She woke screaming.
The sound echoed through the tapestries and made the chandeliers tremble. She sat up in bed, chest heaving, eyes wide. Sweat clung to her brow.
“I’m here!” Joffrey said.
He was beside her again. His green eyes shone brighter than ever. He climbed into the bed and wrapped his arms around her. “Sansa. Sansa, it’s me. Joffrey. You’re safe now. I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She felt his arms around her, the heat of his skin, the scent of leather and wine and something metallic. There was strength in his voice, but something else too — something of a boy, lost, like a dog barking at a storm.
Sansa let herself lean against his shoulder. The tears burned, but would not fall. She was too tired.
“Shh,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “It was just a dream. I’m here. No one will harm you.”
She did not reply. She just listened.
When her trembling ceased, Joffrey gently pulled back.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “I… I’ll fetch the maester.”
Sansa watched him leave. She did not try to stop him. Something inside her had broken, and she didn’t yet know how to mend it.
He returned soon after, bringing the same maester — a pale, thin man with fingers like crow’s claws. He carried a small amber vial and a goblet.
“Milk of the poppy, my lady,” he said. “It will bring sleep, but not dreams.”
Sansa looked at the goblet, then at Joffrey.
“Trust me,” he said, squeezing her hand.
She drank.
It tasted sweet and cloying, like rotting apples.
Moments later, the world began to dissolve.
And in the final instant, before sleep took her completely, she thought she heard her father’s voice once more, whispering her name.
Sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting golden stripes on the stone floor and the embroidered blankets of the bed. Sansa blinked slowly, sleep still heavy on her lashes. For a moment, she couldn’t say where she was. The ceiling above her, the texture of the curtains, the softness of the pillow — all felt adrift, as if she were still trapped in a dream. But one thing was more real than any dream: the rough dryness in her throat.
She tried to speak, but her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. With effort, she lifted herself slightly, the muscles in her body protesting with faint aches. She was alive. Alive. The word pulsed in her mind like a muffled drum. The memory of dirty hands clutching at her dress passed like a shadow. But she pushed the thought away. Not now.
The door creaked softly, and a handmaiden entered with silent steps, eyes lowered, hands clasped before her apron.
“Lady Sansa?” the young woman asked in a gentle voice. “Do you need anything?”
Sansa nodded faintly, her dry lips struggling to form words.
“Water,” she managed at last, and even that sound seemed difficult to reach.
The maid was quick to respond. She brought a silver pitcher and poured fresh water into a delicate cup. Sansa drank eagerly, almost spilling some on the sheets, but the feeling of the cold liquid sliding down her throat was divine relief.
When she finished, she placed the cup in the maid’s hands and nestled back among the cushions. The mattress was soft, the coverlet smelled of lavender and rose, but something else drew her attention: the chair beside her bed. The one with the high back and carved arms, the seat slightly sunken. The chair where he had been.
Her eyes lingered there, as if she could still see the golden shadow of Joffrey, the way he leaned close to touch her, or the warmth of his hand enclosing hers. She didn’t know what had been dream or reality, but the image of him keeping vigil beside her bed was too tender to be an invention of her mind.
The maid seemed to notice her gaze.
“The King was quite worried yesterday, my lady,” she said, a faint, timid smile on her lips.
Sansa blushed, a warm wave rising up her neck. “Did he… stay long?”
“The whole time,” the maid replied. “Ever since he brought you. He only left a short while ago, summoned to a council meeting.”
A warm, sweet feeling spread through Sansa’s chest. The whole time. He had stayed the whole time. The memory was blurred, wrapped in fog and pain and fragments of dream, but now it felt more vivid. He had punched the knight, ordered the men to let her go, held her in his arms.
She had no room to feel guilty for wanting his presence. Not now. She was alive. She was alive because of him. Joffrey had risked his life for her. How could that be a lie? How could anyone fake such desperation?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door.
“It’s me,” said a familiar voice — his, firm and steady.
Sansa quickly adjusted her linen nightgown, pulling the coverlet up to her chest, trying to compose herself. The maid looked to her for permission, and when she nodded, opened the door.
Joffrey entered with golden light spilling over his shoulders. His fair hair was neatly combed, his dark tunic embroidered with golden lions, but it was his gaze that struck her like a spear — attentive, intense, almost… protective.
But he was not alone.
Tommen appeared just behind him, his green eyes wide with anxiety. Before anyone could say a word, he ran to the bed.
“Sansa!” he exclaimed, sitting on the edge of the mattress without ceremony. “Are you badly hurt? Does it still hurt? Are you better? Mother said I shouldn’t bother you, but you’re awake now, and—”
Sansa laughed in spite of herself. A small laugh, but a real one.
“Slow down, Tommen,” she said, straightening a bit, feeling the pillows mold to her back. “I’m fine, I swear. Just a little sore.”
“He was desperate to see you,” Joffrey muttered, standing near the writing desk with his arms crossed.
Tommen ignored his brother and turned back to her with a wide smile.
“Joffrey killed all those men,” he said proudly, as if the deed had been his own. “It was easy for him, wasn’t it, Joff?”
Joffrey raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Sansa looked at Tommen, gently brushing her fingers through his golden hair.
“I’m well thanks to your brother,” she said, turning her eyes to Joffrey. “He saved me.”
Joffrey watched her in silence, his gaze so direct she almost looked away. Almost.
Tommen jumped up from the bed, his arms flailing.
“I would’ve fought them too! I would’ve saved you too, Sansa!”
Sansa smiled, touched. “I don’t doubt it, my prince. I’m sure you would have.”
Joffrey let out a soft huff and pushed away from the desk.
“All right, hero,” he said. “But now you need to go. Mother wanted to see you.”
Tommen made a face of frustration, but Sansa spoke before he could complain.
“You may visit me later, if you’d like.”
The boy brightened again and gave a wave before leaving the room. Sansa heard Joffrey instructing something to a guard, his voice low and commanding.
The sound of the door closing behind him brought Sansa back to the present. Joffrey crossed the room with quiet but purposeful steps, his gaze fixed on her — a gaze that seemed to burn through her. Sansa blushed under that look, feeling her cheeks grow hot as she adjusted her linen gown and pulled one of the sheets over herself in a futile attempt to escape such direct attention.
He sat in the chair beside the bed — the same as before — with a contained sigh.
“Tommen cares a great deal about you,” he said, his voice low, almost an accusation disguised as a statement.
Sansa noticed the slight tension in his jaw, the barely concealed note of jealousy in his tone. She tried to smile.
“He’s a sweet child,” she replied, attempting to sound natural.
But Joffrey pressed his lips together, clearly dissatisfied with the answer.
“Would you rather be betrothed to him?”
Sansa stared at him, surprised by the question — but not by the insecurity behind it. It wasn’t the first time Joffrey had shown jealousy toward his brother. There had been a time — when fear still ruled her every thought and the sight of Joffrey made her stomach turn — that she did think Tommen would be a better king. A better betrothed. But it had been a long time since that thought had crossed her mind.
She reached out gently and touched his hand.
“I couldn’t wish to be promised to anyone else,” she said, with quiet sincerity. “Especially after what happened… if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive.”
The honesty in her own words startled her. She was telling the truth — or at least part of it. Joffrey was looking back at her, his green eyes locked on hers, as if he were trying to see into her very soul.
He leaned in, his hand sliding to her neck, pushing her auburn hair aside, and drew her into a kiss. It was slow, calm, and yet deep — as if he meant to leave more than just a touch upon her. Joffrey’s lips pressed against hers with an unfamiliar care, his fingers steady on her nape. Sansa felt warmth rise through her body, her mouth opening softly to him, accepting him, responding to the gesture.
When he pulled away, his fingers slid down her arm, and his voice came out laden with something darker.
“Did any of those men... touch you?”
The question came out hesitant, stumbling, as if the very thought nauseated him. Sansa immediately understood what he meant and answered quickly:
“No. But I felt disgusted just remembering... the way they tore my dress. Your hands...”
She shuddered, and Joffrey seemed to lock his jaw. He took a deep breath, visibly struggling to maintain control, while his hand stroked her arm again, this time more slowly, as if to comfort her.
Sansa found herself remembering something - an idea she had had, fleetingly, at the height of her horror. Unable to contain it, she let it slip:
“While they were trying to... do that to me, all I could think was that... I wasn't for them. That my body didn't belong to them. And then you came to mind. You were all I could think about.”
Joffrey stared at her. A deep silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sound of swallows at the windows and the beating of her heart, which seemed to have risen to her neck. His gaze was intense, filled with something Sansa couldn't yet name.
Then he rose from his chair and sat on the edge of the bed. He took her face in his hands and kissed her - a different kiss from the first, more voracious, more hungry. His lips captured hers with intensity, and Sansa responded before she even realized she had given in.
Her fingers found his blond hair, entangling themselves there, pulling him closer. Joffrey's hand went down to her waist, holding her, squeezing her against him, and Sansa felt his body glued to hers. One of his legs slipped between hers and she sensed his stiffness as clearly as the very heat that began to take hold of her.
Joffrey's hand roamed her body with reverence and need, as if he wanted to decorate every curve of her skin under her nightgown. One of his hands slid to one of her breasts, and Sansa let out a small moan, muffled against his mouth.
He broke off the kiss for a moment and stared at her, as if asking permission without words.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, but he understood.
Joffrey kissed her again while his leg made room between hers. His other hand slowly pulled up the hem of her nightgown. Sansa held the sheet against her, but didn't stop him. The touch that followed was bold, intimate - his hand slipping inside her Intimate apparel, finding her warm, wet, alive.
She let out a surprised sigh, but didn't push him away. His fingers found the small sensitive spot at its center, and he began to make gentle but firm circles, provoking an overwhelming sensation.
“You're so... wet,” he murmured, his voice husky.
Sansa bit her lower lip, her eyes squinting at the wave of pleasure that threatened to consume her. She didn't dare answer. She was afraid of asking him to go deeper, of the words escaping her mouth uncontrollably. But her body spoke for her - her hips seeking his touch, her sighs escaping between kisses.
“How I wish I could take you for myself right now, sink into that wet cunt,” he says, and she bites her lip hard to keep from asking him to.
He increased his movements, more intense, more precise. The heat inside her grew, like a silent storm, until it became impossible to contain. Joffrey kissed her hard the moment she shuddered, the climax pouring over her like a hot, wild wave. She would have screamed if it hadn't been for his mouth muffling everything.
“Oh, Sansa...” he whispered in her ear, his voice choked, and she felt his body tremble against hers, and then she knew that he too had reached his limit. His face sank into the curve of her neck, his warm breath hitting her skin, and for a moment, they were both still, breathing into each other.
Sansa's legs felt weak, her muscles soft as water. She wanted to say something, but the words were lost. She felt sinful. She felt indecent. These were no manners for a lady.
And yet... she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
Notes:
Forecast for the next chapter: Not until May 23rd 🥹
Don't forget, to check for date changes: ladysansas21 😘
Chapter 12: Games of Duty and Desire
Summary:
“She was arguing with the Imp. I didn’t catch everything, but he seemed... to be mocking her. He said something like, ‘The lion’s heart is softer than anyone thought.’ It wasn’t meant for anyone to hear. But I heard it.”
Notes:
Good evening! (Or is it almost good morning? 🤣)
Guys, I'm late with the chapter, but this time I've given you advance notice on my tumblr 😀
As always, thank you so much for the kudos and the warm comments that encourage me so much, I love you 😍
Speaking of comments, I'll be answering the ones from the previous chapter.
That's it, happy reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sansa
She woke unsure if she was still dreaming. The room was steeped in silence, save for the barely perceptible rustle of linen curtains brushing the floor with the morning breeze. The bells in the tower had not yet tolled. No handmaid whispered at the foot of her bed. For a brief moment, the world seemed suspended in the air, like a breath held tight before being released.
What had woken her was memory. Not the sun filtering lazily through the cracks in the shutters, nor the scent that lingered in the air like a whispered prayer. It was him. His touch, the weight of him over her body, the green eyes staring at her as if she were a miracle—or a prophecy. And the sound that had escaped her own lips—a sound she never imagined making for him, and yet had.
She lay upon freshly changed sheets, still soft, still warm, still imbued with the delicate scent of crushed red roses and the faintest hint of poppy—sweet and intoxicating like a kiss sworn upon an oath.
Her body ached, but not with pain. Not like before. It was a different ache—the kind that comes after a long ride or a dance that made one forget time itself. As though her body had been stripped not only of clothes but of skin itself. And now there was another—a new skin, tighter, stranger, more alive.
She turned slowly, disheveled hair spilling over her shoulder, and raised her torso to sit on the bed. The cold air kissed her bare arms, and a shiver ran down her spine like the touch of invisible fingers.
“What is wrong with me?”
The question came sharp as a needle, but without venom. There was no fury, no horror. Only confusion. She did not know whether what she had felt was desire or fear, pleasure or surrender. Perhaps all. Perhaps none. But she knew it had been real. She had felt his heat, his weight, his rhythm. The way he had touched her. And the way she had let him. There had been no pretense. No mask.
She remembered his eyes as he hovered above her, an expression that mingled adoration and hunger—as though he were seeing not just the maiden promised to him, but his queen. And something else—something darker, older. And she had met that gaze. Perhaps with fear. Perhaps with something more. She had let herself be carried away.
There had been no plot. No scheme. No trap. And that frightened her more than if there had been.
“Sometimes you must wear the enemy’s skin to defeat him.”
The voice sounded like Tyrion’s—but also like Cersei’s. And like her own, whispered on nights when she fed the mirror lies just to survive one more day.
Was that what she had done? Or was she merely searching for an excuse to justify surrender?
She had lost herself in him. For a moment, she had forgotten the name Stark. Forgotten Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane, Arya—even her father—his face blurred, as if seen through frosted glass. And now, staring at herself in the mirror, there was something new.
She was no longer the girl.
She rose carefully, as though afraid any sudden movement might shatter the new shape that now inhabited her body. She walked to the gilded mirror, where her reflection awaited like a sentence passed.
Her eyes were hollowed, shadowed—but alive. Her skin bore a strange glow, as though she had emerged from the womb of a she-wolf under winter’s light. Her lips were slightly parted, still full of memory. And on her face… something that had never been there before. A woman.
The door creaked behind her—a soft sound, yet enough to make her flinch. Two maids entered in line, carrying steaming basins of water and baskets of folded linen. Their eyes brightened at the sight of her standing, as though they beheld a newly canonized saint.
“Did my lady sleep well?” one asked, offering a restrained smile.
“We brought hot water. And the dress His Grace ordered prepared...” added the other as she opened the walnut chest.
Sansa nodded, still unsure of her own voice. She remained seated before the mirror as they moved about, scattering citrus perfumes and lavender oils. A silver brush was set beside the basin. And then came the whispers.
Her fingers clenched in her lap, dreading. Did they know? Had they heard anything? Had they peeked? Had she moaned too loudly? Were the guards whispering? Did the whole world now know that Sansa Stark, the flower of the North, had surrendered to the boy-king like a willing bride?
But then she caught the words—and relaxed.
“Did you see him? Covered in blood,” one whispered, carefully combing Sansa’s hair. “They say he killed the man who tried to drag her from the saddle... with his bare hands.”
“It’s all anyone talks about in the kitchens!” the other giggled nervously. “Like the old songs. A true knight. And so handsome...”
“I never thought him capable. But when it comes to Lady Sansa...”
They sighed in unison, like maidens in love with a ballad.
Sansa kept her face as still as marble. But inside, her heart pounded. Not at their words—but at how she reacted to them. There was no fear. No revulsion. Only silence. And a strange flicker of something... dangerous.
She let them dress her. The new gown was green silk, long-sleeved, embroidered with silver leaves—simple, but worthy of a future queen. A gift from him, of course. Everything now came from him. Clothes. Perfumes. Safety. Whispers. Moans.
And a part of her wondered whether, by accepting them, she was also accepting Joffrey himself. And whether accepting him meant accepting herself—the new Sansa who stared back from the mirror with eyes that had already known pleasure.
But she folded that doubt deep inside herself, like one tucks away a dangerous letter in the bottom of a drawer.
The morning sun stood high by the time Sansa decided to leave. The room—once a sanctuary—now felt like a satin prison. She had spent days there, paralyzed like a broken doll—first with fear, then with pain, and now with memories that burned her mind like embers beneath the snow. She needed to breathe. She needed to move. She needed to feel the earth beneath her feet—or rather, the gallop beneath her thighs, the wind in her hair, the sounds of a world that were not bedsheets whispering or maids gossiping.
Ser Arys waited at the foot of the stairs, as always. Dressed head-to-toe in white, hair as polished as the plate upon his chest. He bowed as she descended, offering his arm with the courtesy only he still seemed to preserve among the Kingsguard.
“Does my lady wish to ride?” he asked gently.
“I haven’t seen the sky in days,” Sansa replied.
He did not comment, only guided her through stone hallways and stairwells leading to the stable yard. The sound there was different: hooves on stone, squires’ voices, the smell of hay, leather, and rust. There was life there. Life without masks.
And there, among the horses, she saw Arthur Whitehill.
He stood beside a dark bay, adjusting the saddle. A light mail hauberk covered plain clothes, but Sansa would have known him even in rags. There was something in his posture—the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes swept the surroundings, always evaluating, always measuring risk.
When their eyes met, there was a moment of hesitation. Arthur stepped toward her, pulled off his gloves in one swift motion, and dipped his head in a small bow.
“Lady Sansa.”
Nothing more. But his eyes spoke what his lips did not. Worry. Relief. And something close to barely contained anger.
She tried to smile, but it faltered on her lips. “Ser Arthur.”
He took the reins of a gray mare that had been prepared for her and extended a hand to help her mount. The rough leather of his gloves brushed against her bare skin when their fingers met. The touch was brief, but firm. Almost comforting.
And she saw it. The way he looked at her as he lifted her onto the saddle. There was no desire in that gaze, nor judgment. Only unease.
She set off at a light pace, accompanied by Ser Arys at a respectful distance. The path was short—the old training route around the inner garden—but it was enough for her to leave the castle behind, if only for a moment.
The mare trotted sweetly, the rhythmic sound of her hooves caressing the ground. The sun warmed Sansa’s shoulders, and the crisp air kissed her cheeks. But no matter how much she looked at the pale blue sky or the silhouette of the castle towers, her mind insisted on returning to the night before.
The memory was still there, vivid. Like a freshly formed scar, sensitive to the touch.
It wasn’t just the way he had looked at her, nor how he’d whispered her name between kisses. It was what she herself had felt. The way her body had responded, opening like a nocturnal flower. There was still moisture between her thighs, where he had been. And the mere thought of it made her flush.
“A wicked girl,” she thought, with a flash of self-contempt.
But the thought didn’t scourge her as it once would have. There was shame, yes. But also... curiosity. A sickening desire to know more. To understand why her body had chosen to betray her when her heart was still at war. Was she yielding? Or merely surviving?
When she returned to the courtyard, the squires were already waiting to take the horses. One of them dismounted first and came to assist her, but it was Arthur who stepped forward, gently waving the boy away.
“Allow me, my lady.”
She accepted. Their fingers intertwined once again, and Arthur held her firmly by the waist. As he lifted her down, he leaned slightly forward. His lips barely moved, but his voice reached her ear clearly, muffled by the creak of leather and the distant voices of the men.
“Are you alright, my lady?”
The question wasn’t formal. It was loaded with sincerity, as if he had been holding it back for days.
Sansa drew a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure. “I am, yes. Thank you.”
Arthur hesitated for a moment. His eyes—sharp, ice-blue—studied her for a second that felt longer than it truly was. Then he smiled. A small smile, but genuine.
“I’ve heard things. I was helping organize the supplies after... the commotion. And I overheard the Queen.”
Sansa’s eyes lifted, surprised.
Arthur glanced around before continuing, lowering his voice, “She’s furious. She said the King exposed himself too much for your sake. That he’s letting himself be... swayed by you.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she didn’t flinch.
Arthur went on, “She was arguing with the Imp. I didn’t catch everything, but he seemed... to be mocking her. He said something like, ‘The lion’s heart is softer than anyone thought.’ It wasn’t meant for anyone to hear. But I heard it.”
Sansa lowered her gaze, suppressing a smile. It was working.
Inside, something sparked—a faint flame, but constant. Joffrey was losing his footing. Cersei was enraged. Tyrion was watching. And she... she was playing. Even if the pieces were still wet with blood and memory.
“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered softly.
Arthur simply nodded and stepped back.
She turned toward the castle, the sun now warmer against her neck, and her mind sharper. There were risks, yes. But there was also a path. She only had to avoid losing herself before conquering it. And, above all, not fall in love with her own enemy.
When Sansa returned to her chambers, the silence was as thick as velvet. The same room that had felt oppressive in the morning now welcomed her like a shell. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden shadows on the carpet. And there, upon the canopy bed, rested a gift.
A crimson velvet box, tied with a black satin ribbon. No note. No flower. No signature. But Sansa knew. She knew before her fingers even touched the soft fabric. It could only be from him. The blood-red velvet, the refinement of the wrapping, the absence of words—it all screamed Joffrey.
She approached slowly, loosening the ribbon with hesitant fingers. The velvet slipped aside and revealed the contents: a gown.
Ash-blue silk, light as smoke, embroidered with silver threads forming tiny snowflakes along the bodice and sleeves. Along the neckline and cuffs, discreet rows of rubies were sewn—small gems, red as frozen blood. Winter droplets turned into adornment.
Sansa brought her hand to her mouth in surprise. The gesture was his, but the symbolism was hers. The silk, cold and blue, was the North. The snowflakes, Winterfell. But the rubies were the touch of the South, of a gilded throne, of a cruel king. She was no longer just a wolf. She was a wolf in a golden cage, adorned by her captor.
The message was clear: he remembered who she was, and still, he wanted her to shine for him. Sansa clutched the fabric to her chest and sat on the edge of the bed, the gown resting on her lap like a young bride on her wedding night. She was strangely moved. There was no letter—but there was no need. The gift spoke for itself. It was the gift of a king, of a monster, but also of a man seeking to please. And that offering stirred something inside her. When she undressed with the help of her maids and let the blue silk glide over her shoulders, there was no revulsion. Quite the opposite. There was warmth. A new warmth, different from that of the night before. Sharper. More dangerous.
The silk molded to her body like a second skin. And there, before the mirror, she saw something that made her catch her breath.
She was beautiful. Beautiful as a princess from a song. Like the maidens she’d read about in her father’s books. But she was no longer the girl she had once been. There was a woman staring back at her in the mirror—a woman marked by fear and survival, yes, but also by desire and power.
The gown hugged her breasts gently, emphasizing the delicate curve of her waist. The ruby-studded sleeves shimmered as if alive. The sunset light touched the fabric as if blessing it.
Sansa lifted her chin and looked at herself head-on. For the first time in a long while, she felt something close to pride.
“He wants me. Desperately,” she told herself.
The words escaped her lips—soft, but firm. And it was true. Joffrey desired her. Not merely for her beauty. Not merely for vengeance or vanity. But for something darker, more primal: the desire to possess what slips through the fingers. To bend what seems unbendable.
But she was bending him, too.
Every gesture she made, every sweet smile, every veiled refusal, every “Thank you, Your Grace” uttered with lowered eyes but an unbowed spirit—all of it pulled him toward her like a starving dog to meat.
She felt it. She knew it. And there was power in that. An intoxicating power.
If the game continued like this, she could control him. Turn the monster into a shield. Make the executioner her ally.
Perhaps, if she played well enough, she could reclaim her freedom—or at the very least, become the mistress of her own prison.
But the risk was clear. Something was growing inside her, too. A small, poisonous flower, blooming under the light of desire and attention.
She could not let herself become entangled. She could not be tamed by the same leash with which she was binding the other.
She sighed, running her fingers over the rubies on her sleeve as though they were embers.
“Don’t fall in love, Sansa,” she murmured to the mirror. “Make him love you. But don’t love him back.”
But could she manage that?
She lowered her eyes to the gown once more. The silk seemed to glow with the pulse of her own heart.
***
Joffrey
The sound of his own boots echoed too loudly in the corridors of the Red Keep. A rhythmic sound, sharp and deliberate—as if the marble beneath his feet needed to be reminded who he was. And perhaps... Joffrey needed it, too.
He was back in control. He had been telling himself that since the very moment he climbed the Iron Throne again, with dried blood on his knuckles and trembling knees beneath his armor. But there were cracks now—small, invisible, ones he refused to acknowledge. The memory of the riot gnawed at him like rust beneath gold. Screams. Jeering laughter. A sea of filthy faces, hands stretched out like claws ready to tear him apart. For a moment—a miserable, fleeting moment—the people hadn’t seen a king.
Only a boy with a crown.
The thought was unbearable. Joffrey quickened his pace, as if he could leave it behind.
He had been raised to believe fear was enough. Cersei had always told him: “Kings don’t need to be good. They need to be strong.” Robert had never cared about being loved, only obeyed. And Joffrey had learned early how to extract reverence from the blade, from the scream, from the whip. Power was imposed—like an axe over the neck.
But that filthy, apocalyptic afternoon in King’s Landing had broken something. Fear hadn’t been enough. The people had attacked him. They had attacked the king. And if not for the Kingsguard, and for luck, and maybe… for her…
For her.
Sansa.
Her name slid through his mind like honey dripping from a blade. Saving her had been instinctive. He could have left her. Could have shouted for others to help, like a commander standing safely afar. But no. He had lunged. He had pulled her into his arms, shielded her with his body, and stared down the mob as if his gaze alone could hold them back. It hadn’t been fear. It hadn’t been duty. It was something new.
Something that felt… like power. But not the kind drawn from steel and blood. A power that came from within, and for a moment, made him more than just a king. More than an heir. More even than a Baratheon.
“They call me a monster,” Joffrey thought, his fingers tightening slightly on the ornate hilt of his dagger. “But who else would have risked their life for her?”
It was a recurring thought, almost an obsession. More and more, as he lay awake at night, the image of Sansa beneath him haunted him—not weeping, not trembling, but looking. Seeing him. As if she finally understood. As if she finally recognized. And Joffrey craved that. Recognition. Admiration. Respect.
Perhaps… even love.
His brow furrowed as he turned a corridor where two servants were scrubbing the floors. Both scrambled to their feet the moment they saw him, heads bowed, eyes lowered. One of them—a freckled boy—visibly trembled. Joffrey stared at him a beat too long. The boy shrank.
They still fear me, Joffrey thought, satisfied. But as he continued down the hall, he noticed something else—something new. There was reverence now. Whispers. A budding respect that wasn’t born of threat, but of action. The rumor was already spreading through the castle, flowing like fresh wine: the king had saved his betrothed with his own hands. The king had bled for her.
And that made him different. Better. Invincible.
“They think I’m just a boy with a crown,” he muttered under his breath, to no one but himself. “But a boy wouldn’t have done what I did.”
His green eyes wandered across the stained-glass windows casting shards of color onto the marble floors. Blue, like the North. Red, like royal blood. Gold, like his name. And within those fractured beams of light, he saw her. Sansa. Her face as she thanked him. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. Her body trembling—but not from disgust. There was warmth. There was… acceptance.
Joffrey didn’t know if it was possible for her to love him. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that she looked at him differently now. And for now, that was enough.
With each step, he felt the weight of the crown upon his golden hair—but for the first time, that weight seemed less suffocating. There was purpose now. There was direction. Whether he was changing for her, he didn’t know. Didn’t want to admit. But something about Sansa stirred in him a desperate hunger to be seen as more than Cersei’s son. More than Tywin’s grandson. More than the beast everyone claimed he was.
A king. The king. Her king.
And if she kept looking at him that way… maybe he would become it.
But then, like a broken prophecy, he rounded the next corner and came face-to-face with his mother. Her presence hit him like a wall: still, cold, and radiant in the gold of her embroidered gown. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, but her face… her face still bore the flush of the slap he’d given her—masked now with powders and dark wine tints, but not fully concealed. Her left eye slightly swollen, the skin pulled too tight around her mouth.
Joffrey paused. His eyes darted to that mark with the sharpness of a falcon mid-dive. A small pang crossed his chest—a shadow of something he wouldn’t dare call remorse. But it was there.
Cersei assessed him with her usual lofty gaze, but something had shifted. Wounded pride made her words sharper, as if she were clinging to something slipping through her fingers.
“She’s pretty,” Cersei said without preamble, her voice low and measured. “But she’s still a Stark.”
Joffrey didn’t answer. The words hung between them like a wire pulled taut. He felt the anger rise—not the wild, uncontrolled fury of before, but something colder. Sharper. He kept walking, and she followed.
“You think you’re in control,” she continued, her words now matching her light, predatory steps. “But you’re letting yourself be bewitched by a girl. That makes you weak.”
“And what do you know about weakness, mother?” he shot back without turning. “Bowing to my father until he drank enough to forget you existed? Swallowing every humiliation with a smile while plotting behind his back? Is that strength?”
She spun precisely in front of him, forcing him to stop. Her green eyes blazed.
“I did what I had to do to survive. To keep you alive.”
“I never asked you to,” he replied coolly. “I’m not a boy anymore.”
“But you still act like one,” she snapped—and for a fleeting second, her voice faltered. “You spent the night with her.”
Joffrey didn’t allow himself to be surprised that she knew. He raised his chin. “I’m the king.”
“And she’s a player,” Cersei spat, her sharpness barely masking the tremor of fear beneath. “You risked too much for her. That’s what everyone said after the riot. Even Tyrion. He and I heard it together, in every corridor—the brave king risked his life for a northern prisoner.”
“What they said is true,” he replied, letting pride drip from every syllable. “I did risk it.”
“And why?” Her voice nearly broke. “For desire? For honor? Because you wanted her to smile at you? You are the king of the Seven Kingdoms, Joffrey. Not some wandering knight.”
“Maybe I want to be more than a king they fear,” he said, stepping forward now, locking his eyes onto hers. “Maybe I want to be remembered. Maybe I want them to love me.”
The word hung there—love. A sound almost obscene in this family.
Cersei paled. Her ever-steady eyes trembled, just for a second. And he saw it—clearly, unmistakably: what she feared most wasn’t losing control over him. It was losing him… to Sansa.
“She is not like you, Mother,” Joffrey said then, with calculated softness. “She doesn’t want the throne. She only wants to be heard. And I listen to her.”
The queen turned her face away. A small gesture, but heavy with meaning. It wasn’t indignation. It was retreat.
But he wasn’t willing to grant her the victory. Not today.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, resuming his pace, “there’s a council meeting. And after that, I intend to see if she liked the gift I left.”
Cersei followed him in silence for a moment. The sound of her skirts dragging across the stone corridors filled the silence like a funeral procession.
And then she muttered, almost to herself, “You’ll regret this, Joffrey.”
He paused, just for an instant, and glanced over his shoulder.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “But not today.”
And he moved on, the crown gleaming beneath the toroidal sunlight, his eyes fixed ahead—like a golden wolf hunting in open fields.
The Small Council chamber was cold, even with the heat of the iron brazier glowing in the corner. Tall windows allowed sunlight to spill in sparingly, as though the very light was wary of King’s Landing. At the center of the room, the long table of black oak—older than the Iron Throne itself—already hosted the familiar faces: Tyrion, cup in hand, tongue sharper than the dagger hidden at his hip; Varys, wrapped in lilac silks, smiling as though part of some invisible play; Lord Tywin still absent; and Cersei, seated close to the high seat reserved for the king, like a shadow that refused to fade.
Joffrey entered with firm steps, crimson cloak trailing with purpose, his gaze sweeping the room. None of them stood, save the maester, out of habit. The others merely watched. He knew that behind every glance there was more than courtesy. There was calculation. Expectation. Contempt. And now—since the riot—there was something else.
Fear.
“Your Grace,” Tyrion greeted, inclining his head ever so slightly, “how fortunate that you could grace us with your presence. The city burns with rumors, the people seethe, but at least the king walks among them… sometimes quite literally.”
Cersei shot her brother a warning glance, but Joffrey ignored him. He sat, adjusted his cloak, and raised his chin.
“Begin,” was all he said.
Tyrion nodded, settling back with the soft creak of his chair.
“The riot was a warning, though one masked by hunger and desperation,” he began. “But ‘warning’ is a kind word. The people hate us, Joffrey. The people hate you.”
“They should fear me,” the king replied, cold.
“Fear is useful,” Tyrion agreed, “until they realize they are many, and you are but one. What happened demands a response. But not a harsh one. No executions, no public punishments. None of that. We need to make you a more popular king.”
Joffrey disliked that notion immensely.
Tyrion cleared his throat. “There’s also the matter of supply. The few shipments reaching the city are being seized by bandits and minor lords who no longer trust the stability of the capital.”
Varys leaned forward, fingertips pressed together like moth wings. “Which is why we must control the narrative. Turn disgrace into heroism. Word already spreads through the corridors, like fresh wine: His Grace descended to the ground to save his betrothed—even as the mob lunged at the guards. A powerful tale. A legend, if properly shaped.”
Joffrey looked up at the eunuch. His restless heart beat a little faster.
“The king who protects his lady,” Varys repeated. “It’s a beautiful image.”
Joffrey reclined in his chair. The idea pleased him. But he didn’t want it to sound like a lie. He loathed appearing weak—worse still, appearing needy.
“I don’t want some silly tale for old women,” he said, looking straight at Tyrion. “Nor cheap flattery. Make something that lasts. Tapestries. A song. One they’ll sing in the markets, on ships, at fairs. With harps and flutes. And let it speak of blood as well. They love blood.”
“Oh yes,” Tyrion said dryly. “Nothing wins hearts like a bloody ballad. Perhaps something like The King and His Valor?”
“The Lion and the Maiden,” Joffrey suggested, and for once, his smile was genuine. “The people must see that she is with me. That I protect her. That no one can touch her.”
Varys offered a silky smile, bowing his head. “I can already hear the verses, Your Grace.”
As the conversation turned back to matters of security, Joffrey let the others speak. His gaze drifted for a moment, unfocused. Tapestries. Songs. He wanted farmers’ children to hear his name and feel pride. Fear, yes. But pride, too. The memory of Sansa’s face—those wide eyes as he pulled her into his arms—returned like a warm breath. There had been real power in that. Power he had chosen to wield. For the first time, it had felt like control—not imposed, but earned.
“Lord Baelish has yet to return,” Tyrion was saying, pulling him back to the room. “Sent weeks ago to negotiate with the Tyrells. No raven. No whispers.”
“Why should I care?” Joffrey scoffed, already bored of the subject. “I’ve said a thousand times—I will not marry Margaery Tyrell.”
Cersei sighed. “You cannot rule on whims alone, Joffrey. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”
He turned to her slowly. The smile formed with precision, as though it had been rehearsed.
“Oh, dearest Mother,” he said sweetly, “if I’m to follow my duties, then I must marry Sansa. I was promised to her before the Sept of Baelor the day we arrived in King’s Landing. She has no father. She is under the king’s protection. My protection.”
The words hung in the air, sharp as arrows.
“So you see, Mother,” he concluded, folding his hands neatly atop the table, “I am fulfilling my obligations.”
Silence followed. Tyrion merely observed, eyes half-lidded. And Cersei… Cersei stared at him as though she were seeing someone else beneath her son’s skin.
The lion who would no longer be tamed by her, Joffrey thought.
***
Catelyn
The sound of hooves against the stone courtyard seemed louder than usual that morning. Each strike was a reminder of what was being lost: men, strength, hope. Catelyn Stark stood atop the low wall of Riverrun’s watchtower, her fingers entwined upon the weathered stone parapet, watching as Edmure Tully, clad in armor gleaming beneath the first rays of sunlight, rode away in formation with his men. A banner of blue and salmon rippled in the wind—steady, proud—as if the hopes of an entire house rested upon that cloth and the hands that bore it.
Edmure rode at the front, his face set with the grimness of a warrior more seasoned than he truly was. He was determined—she knew—to honor his father, to prove himself worthy of the faith Riverrun had placed in him since the cradle. Edmure wanted to be more than an heir. He wanted to be worthy.
Catelyn watched. But she did not cry.
"He rides with sword and sigil," she thought. "And I... with an army of ghosts."
Doubt, fear, guilt—these marched with her wherever she went. And unlike the spears and swords Edmure carried, her weapons did not defend. They only wounded.
By her side, Brienne of Tarth stood silent, her eyes tracking the march with a poorly concealed longing. The girl was all discomfort; she wore a linen tunic beneath her leather jerkin, stitched by hands that were careful, yet reluctant. Catelyn had ordered proper dresses made for her—fitting for a lady in times of peace. But Brienne accepted silk the way an animal accepts a bridle: unwillingly. Her sword hung at her hip as if it were part of her body.
“You would rather be out there, riding with them, knee-deep in mud and danger,” Catelyn said, never looking away from the road.
Brienne hesitated before answering.
“Yes, my lady.”
The reply was simple. Honest. It was one of the things Catelyn liked about her.
“But we will not stand idle,” she went on. “We have our duty. What remains of it.”
The word duty felt heavier than usual. She had spoken it a thousand times—to her sons, to Ned, to servants—but now it tasted like a stone in her mouth.
In the distance, the dust of the march faded.
The castle seemed larger after their departure. Larger, and emptier. Only the old, the wounded, the sick, and boys gripping spears too long for their arms remained. The music of war had ridden out the gates. What lingered was only the echo.
Catelyn stepped away from the wall and, with steady steps, crossed the silent courtyard. The tapestries hung still. The torch flames slept. When she reached the sept, it was empty. Only the trembling light of candles broke the dimness. There, between the colored panes of stained glass, she knelt. The cold stone beneath her knees was no harsher than the weight upon her chest.
Before the Seven—the Father, the Mother, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Smith, the Crone, the Stranger—she did not pray aloud. But she thought:
"Protect my brother. Protect my son. Robb, my firstborn, my king. Edmure—foolish, headstrong, but loyal."
Her mind turned to her father, now bedridden, pale as linen, breathing like a bird. To Uncle Brynden, far away on another front. To the old maester, dead the past winter. To Septon Osmyn, buried in the healer’s garden. The figures of her childhood had vanished, one by one, like leaves in the wind. Only she remained. And she... she felt lost.
"How does one fulfill a duty when the very shape of it is no longer clear?"
When she returned to the courtyard, the sound of a lute floated on the air. Rymund the Rhymer strummed an old ballad about fallen heroes and the maidens who wept for them. A handful of squires and stable boys stood listening, rapt, dueling with sticks as though they were knights. Even Brienne paused for a moment, listening in silence, as if trying to memorize the verses.
Catelyn approached. She looked at the boys and wondered:
"Why does war so easily capture a boy’s heart?"
Why did the idea of glory tempt them more than the idea of life?
Brienne glanced at her and spoke without ceremony:
“I prefer the sword to waiting. When I fight, I feel less powerless.”
“Knights die in battle too,” Catelyn replied, without reproach.
Brienne nodded, her gaze never leaving the bard.
“And women die in childbirth... but no songs are sung for them.”
The silence between them said more than any ballad could. Catelyn felt the truth of it like a blade. How many times had she bled, wept, feared for her children—in silence, in darkness, unseen, unsung?
“Motherhood is a battle,” she murmured. “Without banners. Without horns. But with blood. And death. Some visible... some not.”
She walked away, her steps slow through the stone gallery. Brienne followed.
“I grieve not being beside all my children,” Catelyn said. “Bran, Rickon... I no longer know where they are. Arya... gods, let her not be dead. My sweet Sansa... in the lion’s den. And Robb... even when I see him, it feels as if part of him is already gone.”
Catelyn stopped, drew a long breath, and turned to the young woman beside her.
“I am tired of being strong alone. But in the absence of the men of my house, I must rely on your protection.”
Brienne squared her shoulders. Her answer came without hesitation:
“Then I shall be your sword.”
And Catelyn knew, with a certainty that did not come from gods but from the marrow of her bones, that this tall, awkward woman would indeed be her shield. Not because she had been commanded to. But because she had chosen it.
And in times of war, honest choices were as rare as honest songs.
But Brienne and Catelyn were interrupted by the arrival of a letter, folded with precision and sealed with golden wax. The crowned stag was pressed carefully into the seal, but contrary to what it suggested, the contents bore the weight of surrender — not victory.
Ser Desmond Grell brought the parchment in hand, brow furrowed, eyes lowered.
“It came from Storm’s End, my lady. From Lord Meadows.”
Catelyn read the words in silence, as daylight filtered through the arched windows of the solar. The paper trembled faintly between her fingers, yet her face remained composed. She finished reading before speaking.
“Cortnay Penrose is dead,” she said at last. “Storm’s End has fallen.”
Brienne, who stood a few steps away, raised her gaze from the sword she was cleaning with a dry cloth.
“It was given to Stannis?”
Catelyn nodded, her lips pressed into a hard line.
“According to Lord Meadows, without a fight. All the men-at-arms swore fealty to him.”
She folded the parchment with careful precision, as if that could somehow restore a measure of control over the facts. Yet something unsettled her—not in what was said, but in what had been left unsaid.
“Edric Storm’s name is not mentioned.”
“Edric?” Brienne frowned. “Robert’s bastard?”
“Yes. He was under Penrose’s protection, and Stannis demanded him insistently before any surrender.”
Brienne pursed her lips.
“Perhaps he fears the boy might one day claim the throne.”
Catelyn studied the young woman for a moment, then shook her head softly.
“Stannis does not fear bastards. He despises even his own eyebrows when they seem out of place. No. He wants the boy for another reason.”
She rose slowly, hands clasped behind her back, and began pacing the solar as she often did when ill tidings came from the south.
“Edric is Robert’s son by Delena Florent, cousin to Stannis’s wife. A bastard, yes, but raised at Storm’s End among the men who served the king. They say he carries much of his father—black hair, blue eyes, the square jaw of the Baratheons. More than Joffrey ever had.”
She stopped before the hearth, her gaze fixed on the flames. The shadows flickered across her face as though her very memories sought to burn her.
“Stannis means to parade the boy. To show the realm the true blood of Robert. To show that Joffrey is a fraud.”
Brienne remained silent. Catelyn went on:
“I do not know how many will be convinced by such proof... but to the uncertain lords, to those who already whisper about Cersei and her brother... it may be enough to turn the tide.”
For a moment, the solar seemed too small to contain the weight of so many truths. Catelyn narrowed her eyes, as though trying to banish a thought that nonetheless crept back—inevitably—as it always did.
It came in the shape of a young face, pale, with eyes too grey for any common bastard.
Jon Snow.
The name whispered within her like a ghost that still dwelled beneath the roof of her memories.
Catelyn felt the knot tighten in her throat.
“I understand the pain of raising a bastard,” she murmured, unsure whether she spoke to Brienne or to herself. “I understand even more the pain of living beside him, as a constant reminder. I looked at Jon, and I saw not only Ned’s betrayal... but the shadow of a woman I never knew. A shadow he never erased.”
She sat down suddenly, as though her legs could no longer bear her weight.
“And now... now that shadow has died with him.”
Brienne hesitated.
“You... grieve her?”
Catelyn looked at the young knight with an expression that was hard to read.
“I do not know. Perhaps. Sometimes I wonder if she mourned Ned’s death as well. Or if she hated him... for leaving her. For silencing her. For hiding her away in the depths of his honor.”
Silence.
The letter still rested upon the table. Catelyn gazed at it as if it were the end of a thread she wasn’t sure she wished to pull.
“Every man treats his bastards in his own way,” she said at last. “Ned... Ned protected Jon. Ser Cortnay Penrose died defending Edric Storm. But...”
She opened a second letter, one she had not yet read. Her eyes scanned the harsh, firm words, penned by the hand of Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.
The words dripped with venom.
“Bolton writes of his bastard, Ramsay. Says he feels relieved to be rid of him.”
She raised her eyes to Brienne.
“Relieved.”
Even as she said it, the word tasted unjust.
“He describes the boy as deceitful, cruel, dangerous. A scourge. Says that his young wife can now bear trueborn sons in peace, without the threat of a bastard lurking in the shadows.”
Brienne scowled.
“What kind of man writes that about his own son?”
Catelyn did not answer immediately.
“Perhaps a man who knows the evil he’s sown. Or perhaps... a man who fears the reflection he sees in his son. I do not know which is worse.”
She shoved the letters away, as though the very touch of them was repulsive. The parchment slid across the table like a snake.
“Send a raven to Robb,” she said, turning to Ser Desmond. “He must know of the fall of Storm’s End. And of Edric Storm’s uncertain fate. These pieces are moving across the board faster than we expected.”
The old knight gave a solemn nod and left.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the contemplative silence of the solar. Catelyn lifted her eyes from Roose Bolton’s letter, still lying on the table, as Ser Desmond Grell’s squire rushed in, breathless, his tunic stained with dust.
“My lady Stark,” he panted, “armed men... have been sighted across the Red Fork. They bear the banners of House Brax... and House Lannister.”
She rose without hesitation, her heart tightening as if it meant to halt the blood within her veins.
“How many?”
“The watchman could not say, my lady, but it seems no more than a light detachment. They’re holding position… observing.”
Catelyn did not wait. She climbed swiftly through stone corridors and winding stairways, Brienne close behind, until they reached the battlements atop the eastern tower. The wind there was sharp, laden with the scent of river water and the lingering smoke from the burned fields to the east.
Ser Desmond was already waiting, peering through a bronze tube, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.
“Men of House Brax, my lady,” he announced without turning. “A purple unicorn upon the Lannister gold. Scouts, I’d wager.”
Catelyn leaned upon the parapet and gazed across the Red Fork. The river ran swift, swollen with recent rains. On the far bank, shapes gleamed—knights and squires in polished armor, their banners fluttering against the sky. The sight pulled her back to her girlhood, to a feast at Riverrun when Lord Brax—a stout man with a voice like a drum—had tried, and failed, to persuade Lord Hoster to wed one of his daughters to his sons. She remembered how he had looked upon her and Lysa, like pieces on a cyvasse board. Names were but clauses in a contract.
“Lord Brax was never one to settle for scraps,” she murmured. “Not when he sought a bride from us, and not now. This visit is no simple reconnaissance.”
Ser Desmond grunted.
“Whatever it is, they won’t cross the river easily. Lord Tywin’s main host is still south, near Harrenhal, or marching west to the Westerlands. Here… here we hold the advantage.”
He gestured to the slopes and woods along the eastern shore.
“High ground—good for archers. Trees for cover. And the river itself between us. If they try to cross, they’ll pay in blood.”
Catelyn nodded, but said nothing. No comfort was to be found in hopeful words. Tywin Lannister was not a man who bore failure lightly. If he had sent scouts… the rest would follow. It was only a matter of when.
And then, from afar, came the sound of steel.
The first scream echoed faint on the wind, soon followed by the snap of splintered lances, panicked whinnies, the thunder of hooves upon stone. From the thickets lining the ford, men emerged—shields emblazoned with a silver eagle on blue, the mark of Seagard. The Mallisters.
“Lord Jason wasted no time,” murmured Brienne.
The ambush was deftly laid. The Lannister riders tried to force a crossing, but were caught amid brush and stone, where hidden spears and arrows brought men and horses crashing into the muck. A Brax banner toppled, its point torn by a shaft lodged clean through at an angle. Catelyn clenched her fists as she watched bodies—men and beasts alike—dragged away by the murky current.
“They’re young,” she whispered. “Many of them… no older than Robb.”
“And many would kill Robb without a blink,” Brienne replied, firm.
Beside them, Ser Desmond allowed himself a rare smile.
“Were Lord Hoster standing, he’d laugh this day. He always did love a well-sprung trap. The Mallisters know every inch of this river.”
But Catelyn did not smile. She watched the bodies float like broken dolls and felt no pride.
“Tywin has twice the men Edmure commands,” she said. “Every skirmish won only teaches him more of our strengths… and our weaknesses.”
“Even so,” said Desmond, “while they bleed and we do not, Riverrun holds. And the river is our ally. No heavy host will cross that ford without a cost.”
Yet when darkness fell, it brought a harsher truth.
The alarm rang during the third watch. Catelyn was not asleep—she merely rested—and once more climbed to the battlements with her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. The moon hung low, reflected on the river’s surface like molten silver. And in the shadows… the Lannisters returned.
They had learned. This time they came silently—barefoot, with short spears and light shields. They tried to slip over the dark stones of the riverbed, hoping that night and surprise would tip the scales.
But Lord Jason’s men were waiting.
Arrows rained down from the walls, some wrapped in oily rags and set alight. Fire spread like lightning, kissing shields, cloaks, hair. One man, ablaze, staggered for a moment as though dancing, then collapsed with a scream swallowed by the gurgling river.
“Again… blood in the water,” Catelyn whispered, horrified.
Brienne stood at her side, eyes never leaving the field.
“This was only a test. They’re searching for weakness. And when they find none… they’ll make one.”
At dawn, the field stank of blood and scorched flesh. Crows already circled over the western shore. Yet the men upon the battlements were in high spirits. Another victory, they said. Another failure for Tywin.
But Catelyn did not smile.
She returned instead to the solar, to resume command of the household affairs. Her war was within these walls. She summoned the steward and ordered wine brought to Ser Cleos Frey, Tyrion’s envoy and hostage. A warm belly might loosen a man’s tongue—and she needed every scrap of knowledge she could glean.
Before the sun had set, another raven arrived from the west, its seal stained with blood and mud. It was from Lord Jason Mallister. The message was brief, yet clear:
“New attempt by the Lannisters six leagues south, led by Ser Flement Brax. Assault thwarted. Infantry with short spears repelled by archers and ballistae. Many drowned. No gains.”
More good tidings came from Lord Karyl Vance, who held the Red Fork’s source fortified. No enemy advance there. All remained contained.
For a fleeting moment, Catelyn felt something she dared not name. But it was light. A breath of relief.
She sat upon the oak bench by the window and allowed herself a thought…
Perhaps I was too harsh with Edmure. Perhaps… he is proving himself worthy of the Tully name.
~.~
The damp stone walls echoed beneath her steps. A lantern swayed in her hand, throwing wavering shadows against the moss-clad corridor. Night had fallen over Riverrun, yet Catelyn’s duties remained. There was always one more duty.
The key rattled in the lock. A harsh scrape preceded the stink—sour wine, stale sweat, damp straw… and fear.
Ser Cleos Frey sat slumped on the wooden bench, his tunic rumpled, lips stained with purple. He lifted his gaze sluggishly and struggled to stand, wavering on unsteady legs.
“Lady Stark,” he stammered. “I swear, I knew nothing of the last escape… nothing… I swear by the Seven, by all of them…”
She only stared at him. Silent. Unmoving.
“I did not come here for Jaime,” she said, her voice firm. “Not yet. I want to hear the terms you’ve brought.”
Cleos blinked, his head swaying slightly as if struggling to keep his thoughts in order.
“It was Tyrion who sent me. On his own behalf… but also in the name of the Queen Regent. He spoke… before the Iron Throne, yes, before the entire court.”
Catelyn remained silent, waiting.
“He offered…” Cleos hesitated. “He offered to exchange Ser Jaime for your daughters. He said both Arya and Sansa would be released. With safe conduct, their honor intact.”
Something sank within her chest. A stone dropped into a dark well. She thought of Robb, of Edmure, and how both had dismissed the offer outright. Now, even hearing it from the envoy’s own mouth, she could do nothing but agree. It was a trap.
“My daughters are children,” she murmured. “Jaime Lannister is the sword arm of House Lannister. Freeing him would be handing Lord Tywin a new arm… and a sharp blade to drive into our backs.”
“I… I decide nothing, my lady. I am but a messenger.”
Catelyn stepped closer. The stench of wine on Cleos was strong enough to make her recoil for a moment.
“And did you see them? Did you see my daughters?”
Cleos swallowed hard.
“I saw Sansa. She’s at court… she has been… well.” His eyes drifted, and a timid smile tugged at his lips. “She’s grown more beautiful, everyone says. Tall, graceful… they say she carries herself like a queen. The young king never takes his eyes off her.”
“And Arya?”
The question came quicker than she intended. Cleos hesitated — and that was enough.
“I did not see her, my lady. No one… no one speaks of her openly. They say she vanished during the riots. But Cersei claims she is safe. Perhaps… perhaps they’ve hidden her. For her protection.”
“Or out of shame,” Catelyn whispered. “Or because Arya is too much like her father, too stubborn, and Cersei fears what she might say. What she might do.”
She would not let the dark thought take shape — the image of Arya, small and fierce, lying forgotten and lifeless in some gutter of King’s Landing.
“Cersei didn’t even attend the audience?” she asked.
Cleos shook his head.
“They said she was indisposed. She sent Tyrion in her stead.”
Of course she did. Tyrion. Always Tyrion. With his sharp tongue and sharper mind. A master of the game, despite half a body and twice the arrogance. He was the one who had turned the mountain clans to his cause. The one who had survived the Eyrie and returned to the Lannisters as a hero.
And he was also the one who had denied sending the killer after Bran. But lies were coin in the mouths of Lannisters.
Catelyn stared at Cleos’ fingers, stained with wine, and for a moment her mind drifted back to the curved dagger, cold as ice, that had been pressed against her son’s throat. The doubts never ceased.
“Even drunk, you are still a Lannister,” she said, cold as winter.
Cleos let out a short, pitiful laugh.
“I’m a Frey, my lady. Only half a Lannister.”
“Half is enough to lie.”
He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. And then, in a careless slip, the words tumbled out.
“Even if the Imp made the promise, I doubt the king would let her go… Sansa, I mean. He… Joffrey is clearly bewitched by her. Everyone says so.”
Catelyn froze. “What?”
Cleos blinked, realizing too late what he had just said.
“He… watches her all the time. Sends her dresses, jewels… they say he kisses her in public, even when she does not wish it. It’s an obsession. A sickness.”
Her fists clenched, a tremor rising through her spine.
“Lies,” she said — though it wasn’t about what Cleos had revealed, but the bargain Tyrion had offered. She could see it now, plain as day. Joffrey would never release her Sansa.
Cleos said nothing.
Catelyn stepped back, suffocating. When Sansa had left Winterfell, she had promised her a world of wonders. Songs, golden harps, stone gardens, and dancing. She had told her the court was where dreams were born.
But what she had given her daughter was a nightmare with a prince’s face. A throne of thorns wrapped in a crown of gold.
“May the gods forgive me,” she whispered. “My daughter trusted me.”
She turned away before Cleos could speak another word. She no longer trusted her own restraint.
That night, she did not sleep. The image of Sansa consumed her — those great, dreamy eyes, now likely hollowed by fear and humiliation. The king — no, the monster — who courted her was the same who had ordered Ned’s death. Catelyn felt ill just imagining her daughter near him.
But then, days later, fortune turned.
A raven came before dawn, beating its wet wings against the solar’s window. The letter, sealed with the Mallister eagle, bore the news all Riverrun had prayed for.
Edmure had won.
Tywin Lannister had attempted to cross at three different points — all repelled with strength and cunning. The losses had been significant. Ser Gregor Clegane had been wounded by a poisoned quarrel still lodged in his thigh, and other knights of renown lay dead along the banks of the Red Fork.
Catelyn read the letter twice, her hands trembling until the names blurred before her eyes.
In the courtyard, as the news spread, minstrels plucked their lutes, servants handed out wine and honeyed bread.
“Today, Riverrun celebrates,” said Ser Desmond. “The Lion retreats.”
But Catelyn only pressed the parchment to her chest.
A victory, yes. But the game is far from over. And Tyrion Lannister still plays with pieces no one else can see.
Notes:
Forecast for the next chapter: July 4 (Can be posted Friday, Saturday or Sunday). Don't forget to check tumblr for updates on the chapter's progress and if it needs to be postponed.
Chapter 13: Betrayal
Summary:
“You don’t know what I’d give to be home,” Sansa was saying, her voice thick with sorrow. “To be far away from here.”
Notes:
Good evening, everyone 😄
I'm getting ahead with the chapter here, but since I'm me... I even delayed getting ahead with the chapter 🤣 I announced on Tumblr that I would publish it on Monday, then I announced that I would publish it yesterday (Tuesday), and I actually came here to publish it, but I just realized that I had only saved it as a draft yesterday 😂😂😂 Unbelievable.
As always, I appreciate the affection of those of you who follow me and are patient even when I delay chapters 🥺
This is going to be quite a chapter... Enjoy your reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion
The sun was beginning to rise behind the towers of the Red Keep when Tyrion bid farewell to Shagga, son of Dolf. The Stone Crows were readying their mounts with the same rough efficiency that had made them useful ever since they had descended from the Mountains of the Moon. Filthy, savage, and dangerous—they were, at least, loyal. In their own way. A crude, primal loyalty, but oddly more reliable than that of the perfumed knights and smiling courtiers of King’s Landing.
"Strike like hungry wolves and vanish like mist among the stones," Tyrion said, tugging the reins of his own horse. He tried to sound confident, as his father might have, but there was a note of weariness in his voice that he couldn’t quite hide.
Shagga grunted his assent. "Shagga knows stones better than rivers. But Shagga will make the enemies bleed. Will tear out Stannis’s eyes and eat them with salt."
Tyrion nodded, masking his discomfort. The imagery was... graphic, but the desire to kill Stannis was genuine, and that was enough. As the clans rode eastward to harass the enemy’s supply lines, Tyrion watched the dust rise behind them, carrying away the only fighting force he could truly call his own.
"The good thing about commanding savages," Bronn said beside him as they watched the departure, "is that they obey—until they don’t."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Unlike sellswords, who obey until the gold runs out?"
Bronn smirked, that familiar cynical gleam in his eyes. "Difference is, I like my wine. Savages drink blood."
With the clans gone from the city, Tyrion felt a new vulnerability settling in. His strength was now reduced to paid men and starving men. The City Watch, in their golden cloaks, was largely made up of useless fools who had never drawn a sword outside of practice. Many had been appointed by Robert in times of peace, others by Cersei in times of paranoia. None were fully trustworthy.
"How many of the gold cloaks would actually fight if Stannis came through the East Wall?" he asked Bronn as they descended toward the edge of the city.
"Maybe half. Maybe less," Bronn replied. "Some are only here for bread and shelter. If the tide turns, so do they."
Tyrion nodded. The truth was bitter. An army of empty bellies could be just as dangerous as an enemy army. Robert had ruled through charisma and strength of arms. Cersei tried to rule through fear. Tyrion, however, felt surrounded by enemies—fear came from all sides, even his own men.
Bronn went on: "Even the best of them were named by a dead king. They’re not soldiers. They’re watchmen. And you can see it in their eyes. None of them have killed a man. Some have never seen blood that wasn’t from a broken nose."
Tyrion muttered, rubbing his own nose. "And even that kind of blood can be a decent start."
They made their way to the docks, where the warehouses overflowed with misery. Boats had grown scarce, fishermen charged obscene prices for scrawny fish, and the alleys nearby teemed with hooded figures, prostitutes leaning against walls, and barefoot children with wide, hollow eyes. The smell was a mix of salt, mold, filth, and despair.
Tyrion pulled his horse to a stop in front of a row of makeshift tents, clustered like thorns against the city walls. Torn canvas, rotting wood, slack ropes—the feeble shelters of those who had nowhere else to go. But what struck him most was their location: right up against the walls.
"They’re building ladders for the enemy," he said.
"Flesh and canvas ladders," Bronn added, humorless.
Tyrion remained silent for a while. The morning wind blew strong, carrying the scent of the sea. He watched a boy rummage through an empty basket, searching for fish bones. A woman whispered something to a hooded man, gesturing with her hands; beside her, three children thin as reeds.
He turned to Bronn. "Burn it all."
Bronn raised an eyebrow. "With the people inside, or out?"
Tyrion stared coldly. "Remove the occupants. No rapes. No deaths."
Bronn looked mildly surprised but did not argue. "You’re going soft, Lannister."
"I’m getting smarter. I don’t need more mouths cursing my name than I already have."
Bronn snorted. "Most already do."
"Then let them do it in safety."
While Bronn gave orders to his men, Tyrion remained atop the stony rise by the docks, gazing over the city with tired eyes. King’s Landing was dying by inches. Dying of hunger, fear, and rot. And still the Queen believed all could be fixed with gold and clenched fists.
Tyrion knew better. He knew the people were at their limit. That empty stomachs would soon scream louder than fear. And that if the city walls fell, nothing would remain but chaos.
"Walls don’t save cities," he said to himself. "Harrenhal fell. Storm’s End fell. And Winterfell..."
Winterfell. The memory of the Northern castle was as vivid as it was painful. He remembered the warmth of the hot springs, the smell of wet wood, the whisper of leaves in the godswood. And the eyes of the heart tree, like open wounds.
There, he had been a lonely dwarf among silent giants. A stranger in a world of ice and honor. But he had been respected. Lord Stark had treated him with a courtesy that had nearly hurt. And now that castle was in the hands of the Greyjoys. Stolen. Usurped.
"They may hold the castle," he murmured, "but they’ll never hold the North."
The North was made of blood, roots, and memory. And the Greyjoys did not understand that. They never would. The fall of Winterfell weighed on him in a way he could not explain—perhaps because, for a brief moment, he had tasted something that resembled dignity.
The sound of shouting on the docks brought him back. An old man was arguing with Bronn’s men, refusing to leave his tent. He was pushed. He fell. Got up with rage and spat on the ground. But he left. The others followed, dragging their few belongings in bundles of cloth.
Tyrion turned his horse. There was still much to be done. The enemy was approaching from the east, and he would have to defend the city with whatever he had—even if it was just a handful of cowards, cynics, and scoundrels.
He made his way to the Mud Gate, and the salty gust rising from the river brushed against his face as he watched the work. The sounds of carpenters, smiths, and laborers mingled with the distant chirping of gulls and the rhythmic cacophony of hammers on wood. The siege engines were nearly complete—massive trebuchets, each with thick oak arms and triangular frames reinforced with black iron. The soldiers had nicknamed them "The Three Whores" — a vulgar christening, but typical of the City Watch.
"You know how men are, Lord Tyrion," Ser Jacelyn Bywater had said that morning. "They name the things they fear or desire. Those may be both."
Tyrion hadn’t argued. Better they had names and stirred nervous laughter than indifference. If those whores launched casks of wildfire with enough precision, they might just stop Stannis Baratheon before his men reached the walls.
He paused a moment to watch the bustle below. Workers piled stones and filled barrels with boiling oil. Part of the pier had been dismantled, by his order, to create makeshift barricades. A scene of preparation, yes—but also of desperation thinly masked as efficiency. There was nothing heroic in it. Just sweat, ropes, planks, and fear.
Moving on, Tyrion and Bronn rode toward the Red Keep. Despite the mild morning sun, the streets were packed. Merchants cried out for justice. Three of them—owners of small boats requisitioned for the war effort—approached, clothes stained and eyes ablaze.
"Those ships were all we had, Lord Tyrion," said one. "We fished to feed our families!"
"And how many families will be fed if Stannis takes the city?" Tyrion replied, his voice calm. "You will be compensated—if we win. If we lose, ask Stannis for reimbursement."
They protested, but were already surrounded by men of the City Watch. Tyrion raised a hand.
"Peace. Everything will be recorded. Your losses will be entered in the steward’s book. A Lannister’s word."
The trio withdrew reluctantly. One of them muttered a blessing. Or perhaps a curse. Sometimes, it was hard to tell.
At the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Tyrion realized he was late. The stairway was crowded with people, and the sound of sacred chants drifted through the open doors. From the pulpit above, Joffrey was knighting two new members of the Kingsguard. Tyrion sighed as all he could see was a "wall of arses," as he thought wryly. At least, from the back, he could slip away before the rush.
The ceremony proceeded with the usual pomp. Joffrey, wearing a purple velvet cloak embroidered with golden lions, spoke with rehearsed enthusiasm. Ser Balon Swann knelt before the white marble throne. Tyrion, even at a distance, smiled to himself.
Balon was a good choice. Skilled with bow and morningstar, known for his composure and loyalty. The Swanns of the Marches had always been diplomatic—lords who knew when to fight and when to yield. Lord Gulian Swann, Balon’s father, had kept himself from getting too entangled in the war, letting his sons take opposing sides: one with Renly, the other with Stannis. And now Balon with the Throne. A move that ensured the house a safe place, no matter the outcome.
As for Ser Osmund Kettleblack… Tyrion stifled a snort. Tall, imposing, with the face of a ballad hero—and the mind of a turnip. Cersei had handpicked him, charmed by his looks and docility. Tyrion knew, thanks to Bronn, that Osmund sold secrets to the highest bidder. A risk. But ironically, a useful one.
"One more ear near the king," Bronn had said one night, "but not exactly near the queen."
Better than Ser Mandon Moore. After the debacle at Rosby, where he’d surrendered Tommen without a fight, Mandon had been dismissed in disgrace. Tyrion remembered the carefully staged ambush: City Watch men intercepting the escort—without violence—just to test Mandon’s mettle. The result: shameful.
"He should’ve died defending the boy," the King had said, his eyes burning with frustration.
Tyrion had silently agreed. When even the King saw weakness, it was time to cut. Though Tyrion knew Joffrey bore a special hatred for the man ever since Sansa had nearly died during the riot—an incident in which Ser Mandon was supposed to be her shield.
During the ceremony, Tyrion searched for Shae among the faces. Nothing. His lover now served as a maid disguised as a lady’s companion, under a false identity. Bringing her to King’s Landing had been a risk, but desire had spoken louder. Even so, to protect her, they’d had to hide away all the lavish dresses, glittering rings, and anything that might draw attention. Shae had not liked it. But she had obeyed. So far.
When the applause died down and the new knights donned their white cloaks, Tyrion approached the new High Septon. A fat man, face flushed and eyes shrewd, chosen under Lannister influence after the previous one’s murder.
"Holiness," Tyrion said, bowing slightly. "Your voice reaches more hearts than swords ever could. We need it."
The septon inclined his head. "The Iron Throne may count on my prayers."
"More than prayers. Stannis Baratheon burns sacred groves, destroys septs, and insults the Seven with his new faith. Make the people fear what he represents. Let them think: better a cruel lion than a demon in flames."
The septon smiled, indulgent. "His flames will never outshine the light of the Seven."
"Good. And while they burn, make sure the people remember who raised this sept—and who would see it burn."
Tyrion descended the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor beneath the heat of midday, the crimson cloak of the Hand trailing behind him like a smear of blood. The incense still clung to his clothes, and the droning chants of the new High Septon echoed faintly in his ears. But now the sun was high above the towers, and the shadow of faith gave way to a harsher truth: war, intrigue, and manipulation—the only constants in his life.
Crossing the outer yard, Tyrion quickened his pace. There was still much to do before night fell over King’s Landing. And that was when he saw him: the dark-haired squire, standing in the shade of the stables, wearing a simple tunic that did little to hide the tension in his shoulders. Arthur Whitehill. The same boy Ser Boros Blount had once described as “suspiciously quiet.”
Tyrion approached with a half-smile, which on his face looked more like a cat’s grin after sniffing out a rat.
"How fares the young squire?" he asked, his voice steeped in irony.
Arthur turned with a slight start. His eyes—deep blue like a stormy day—met Tyrion’s, hesitant.
"My lord Hand," he replied, bowing stiffly. There was no warmth in the greeting, only caution.
Tyrion clasped his hands behind his back, observing the boy like a maester studying a chess piece that refused to move.
"I was wondering how our little arrangement was going. Are you faring better with courtesies than with lances? Or still stumbling through both?"
Arthur took his time to answer. His lips tightened, and he looked away toward the hooves of a horse being groomed nearby. At last, he said:
"I’m getting closer to her. Lady Sansa. But… it’s still early."
"Early?" Tyrion gave a dry chuckle. "Stannis’s bellies and galleys approach faster than your tongue draws near the heart of my dear Lady Stark."
Arthur drew a breath. When he spoke, his voice was steadier.
"I don’t want to force anything. She’s been through a lot, my lord. And... I’m not Joffrey."
Tyrion arched a brow.
"Thank the gods. The Iron Throne couldn’t handle two. But don’t mistake me for some sentimental balladeer, boy. We made a deal. Freedom in exchange for separation. You distract the wolf so the lion may sleep in peace. Simple."
Arthur squinted at him, as if struggling with something within.
"I remember the deal. But things are... complicated."
"Complicated," Tyrion echoed, his tone now darker. He stepped forward, his shadow barely reaching the squire’s chest. "Or is it that you, unfinished knight, have gone and fallen for her?"
Arthur didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it. His silence spoke louder than words. His eyes dropped, and a flush of color rose to his cheeks.
Tyrion sighed—long and loud, like a man who’s just heard a child explain the workings of the world.
"Wonderful. Why not? What else could go wrong? A Northman falling for a captive princess. Sounds like one of Old Nan’s stories. And still... we haven’t the time for tales."
He crossed his arms, drumming his fingers on his forearm.
"Listen to me, Whitehill. I'm a practical man. And what's practical now is that Sansa Stark is less entangled in the promises of my adorable nephew. That benefits you. And, let's face it, if you're really good at it, she might even like it. But you need to act."
Arthur raised his face, now clearly suspicious.
"And what exactly do you want me to do?"
"Tomorrow," said Tyrion, "she'll pray in the Sacred Grove, as she always does. You'll be there. Not armed, not arrogant. But present. Close. Start a conversation. Personal. No politics. No royalty. Talk about horses, your sisters, songs, the wind. If she cries, listen. If she smiles, answer. But let it be something... more intimate. She needs to remember that there are men in the world besides Joffrey."
Arthur watched him with growing suspicion.
"And what do you want, anyway?"
Tyrion turned around, adjusting the wide belt around his belly. His voice came like an arrow shot over his shoulder:
"I intend to win a war. And to do that, I need the king to have fewer heads in his heart and more eyes on the city gates. Do as I ask. And don't forget: freedom is not a gift. It's a currency."
With that, he walked away, the sound of his boots echoing off the stones of the courtyard like a tambourine of veiled threats. The sky was beginning to redden on the horizon, and the bells called for the eighth prayer of the day. But Tyrion wasn't praying. Tyrion plotted.
And as always, he did everything himself.
***
Sansa
Sansa woke up to the light sneaking through the gaps in the heavy curtains. The morning breeze brought the scent of the sea mixed with the incense burning in the hall below. For a moment, she left her eyes closed, longing to remain in the dimness of the dream. But it wasn't a dream - it was a memory.
The night before still burned into her skin like the heat left by eager fingers. Her legs felt shaky, as if the ground had moved away from her. The shame would catch up with her soon, as it always did. But not before she allowed herself that small pleasure: remembering.
Joffrey had entered her chambers without pomp, without guards, his face paler than usual. His eyes were dark with fatigue and tension, but there was also a strange sweetness there that she was beginning to recognize. A gentleness that he only showed when he was afraid - or when he was with her.
"I couldn't sleep," he had said, throwing his cloak over a nearby chair. "They talk about the battle as if it were certain, but nothing is certain. Not even who will survive."
Sansa had stood up slowly, covering herself with the light shawl. "You'll win," she had replied, "you and Lord Tyrion are working so hard on it..."
He stared at her, his eyes still heavy. "I don't want to talk about victory. I just want... to be here." A pause. "With you."
She didn't know what made her approach him. Perhaps the way he murmured, as if he wasn't a king, just a boy looking for warmth. Or perhaps the way he had reached out, touching her gently, as if he still feared that she would pull away.
The conversation took them back to Tommen - the escort that had failed, Ser Mandon arrested as a traitor, and Joffrey's short laugh as he recounted how the knight had given up his brother without a fight.
"He should have been beheaded right there," he had said. "If you saw the look of fear on his face..."
Sansa smiled. "It's a shame I couldn't."
Joffrey laughed - a low, dry laugh. "You're getting cruel, my Stark."
She didn't answer. Instead, their eyes met, and the silence that followed seemed denser than words. It was he who approached first, holding her by the waist. The kiss began like so many others - a quick, almost hesitant gesture - but soon deepened, his hands moving up her back with more conviction.
Sansa couldn't resist. She hadn't been able to resist for a long time.
"You calm me down," he whispered against her lips. "Only you."
She felt her body being lifted with ease. A small sigh escaped her as he sat her down on the table in the bedroom, moving parchments and combs aside with decisive movements. He stared at her, as if asking permission without saying it out loud.
Sansa didn't say anything - she just touched his face, a light gesture, but one that contained all the answers. He slid his hand up her thigh, moving slowly, with almost reverent care. She felt the heat rise inside her like a warm wave. His kisses returned, now more urgent, deeper. When his hand found its way under the light fabric of her underwear, she gasped - not from fear, but from desire.
Every touch seemed to set her skin on fire. His fingers were firm and deft, exploring her folds with a newfound confidence. She leaned on his shoulders, seeking his lips as the world around her dissolved. For a moment, there was no castle, no war, no crowns - only the sound of her own heart beating, and the warmth pulsing in her womb.
She moaned softly as the pleasure washed over her like an inevitable wave. Joffrey supported her with his body and arms, his eyes fixed on hers. When she came down from her peak, he kissed her on the forehead and murmured with a smile: "After the battle, Sansa... I'll be between your legs. And you'll want it."
She didn't answer. Perhaps because, at that moment, she knew he was right.
Now, lying alone, the memory filled her with a mixture of warmth and discomfort. She clutched the pillow to her chest, trying to stifle her thoughts. What kind of girl - what kind of daughter of Ned Stark - would let herself be seduced like that by a cruel king, a proclaimed monster?
She felt ashamed. Ashamed of wishing for those moments. Ashamed to have wanted them again. Ashamed of remembering the taste of his kisses and wondering if she would have let him go any further if he had insisted. The worst thing, she thought, wasn't what he did to her. It was what she wanted him to do.
She closed her eyes, seeking comfort in the silence, but found nothing but a voice whispering inside her. His voice.
"You want me, Sansa Stark."
And the most terrible thing was knowing that, in some hidden part of her, she really wanted to.
Sansa stood up with the weight of her body still immersed in memories, but the sun was already warming the stone floor of the room, and the world was not waiting for her daydreams. She dragged her feet to the basin of water that the maid had left and washed her face with restrained, almost shy gestures. Her skin still burned, not from the cold water, but from what had been left on it since the night before.
After her morning hygiene, a silent maid brought in a tray with sweet bread, fresh grapes, butter and a small jar of apricot jam. Sansa thanked her with a nod and sat down at the small table by the window. As she ate, her gaze wandered over the city beyond the walls of the Red Keep. The air carried the scent of the tide and the people crowded into the lower districts. The streets buzzed with a mixture of urgency and fear.
"How long would it take Stannis to march here?" he thought. He was methodical, but determined. Soon they would be surrounded, and King's Landing would face what she could only imagine in the vague outlines of her nightmares.
The hours passed effortlessly. There was nothing urgent to do, and that in itself was a burden. Sansa walked around the room, read a few pages of an old septan book and, for a while, just sat on the windowsill, watching the boats on the river. Fight as she might, she couldn't stop an insistent thought from popping into her mind - she wanted Joffrey to appear. She wanted to hear his voice, even if it was arrogant. She wanted to feel his hand on hers again. The desire embarrassed her, and she looked away, as if the sky itself were watching her.
She decided to leave when the sun had already passed its zenith. She put on a simple blue silk dress with tight sleeves and delicate embroidery, and tied her hair with a pearl-colored ribbon. When she descended, Ser Arys Oakheart was already waiting for her, as he nearly always was now. Ever since the disgrace of Ser Mandon Moore, he had become her shield. Sansa had liked him—he was pleasant. But at times, she wondered if he understood that his presence, though protective, was also a cell.
Ser Arys escorted her to the godswood within the Red Keep, but as usual, stopped at the entrance.
“I’ll be here if you need me, my lady,” he said with a discreet bow.
Sansa passed through the small wrought-iron gate and felt the air shift. The godswood was nothing like the one in Winterfell, but it still held something ancient. There were only a few trees here, and none of them were weirwoods with carved faces, but the filtered light through the leaves and the silence broken only by the murmur of a small stream offered a rare kind of comfort.
She knelt on the soft grass and clasped her hands.
“May the Old Gods hear me, even far from the North, I call to you. Protect Robb, wherever he may be. Watch over my mother and all those who fight for justice. Help my brother win soon, and bring an end to all the horrors.”
She paused and drew a deep breath.
“Let Arya be safe, wherever she is. Let her be free and strong, as she always was. And keep my brothers safe within the walls of Winterfell.”
And finally, in a voice barely above a whisper:
“And if you can… if you can… help me smother these feelings I carry. I don’t want them. I swear I don’t.”
The wind stirred the leaves with a gentle sound, like a silent answer she could not understand. Sansa remained there for a while, quiet, before sitting on the grass, legs folded beneath her, gaze drifting between the trees.
The memories came without effort, as they so often did in that place. She remembered the crypts of Winterfell—cold and damp, dark even with torches burning. One afternoon, she, Arya, and Rickon had gone down there for some childish game that had become far too serious.
Arya had carried Rickon in her arms, face set in determination, while Sansa had watched the statues of their ancestors with growing unease.
That was when the sounds began—soft footsteps, distant whispers. Sansa had wrapped her arms around herself, fear rising in her throat.
“Arya… did you hear that?”
“Shhh,” Arya had replied, her eyes wide—but more curious than afraid. “Stay behind me.”
The sound grew closer. And then, they appeared—two figures draped in white cloaks, their faces ghostly and dusted with flour. Sansa had shrieked and fled, her skirt tangling around her legs, her hair caught in the hood. She had stumbled out of the crypts as though the dead themselves were at her heels.
Only later had Arya confessed, laughing, that it had been Robb and Jon behind the trick.
Sansa had been furious. She had sworn not to speak to Robb for a week. But the next day, when he smiled at her with that awkward, sheepish look of his—half a walnut loaf hidden in his sleeve, head bowed—she had already forgotten her vow.
“Gods… how I miss Robb,” she whispered.
He had always been the brother who seemed nobler, stronger, like a true knight from the songs. He had their father’s smile and their mother’s sense of honor. And now he was at war, surrounded by spears and betrayals, and all she could do was pray.
Seated beneath the shadow of a tree with red leaves, Sansa began to sing in a low, sweet voice, as faint as the wind that stirred the foliage of the godswood. It was a song that had been born in her mind on lonely afternoons—a melancholy melody that seemed to rise from the cold stones of the Red Keep, like a root of sorrow growing in silence.
“The raven stole my northern light
With frozen breath, in autumn’s flight
Snow buried all that once stood tall
And smiles died upon the throne
I sang to no one by stonebound pane
Waited for a face, a touch, a name
But winter’s flower fell to dust
And the northern girl slept in the husk”
She finished with her voice trembling, her eyes following the flight of the birds crossing the gray sky. They could fly. Fly far from the Red Keep. Fly to Winterfell. Fly to Robb. Fly home.
“You have a beautiful voice.”
The voice behind her made her heart leap. Sansa stood abruptly and turned.
“Arthur!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “You frightened me.”
Arthur—the dark-haired squire who had been trailing her from afar these past weeks, always in shadow, always discreet—looked unsettled.
“Forgive me, my lady. I just… I heard your song and…”
She nodded, softening her tone. “It’s all right.”
The silence between them stretched for a moment. She expected something courteous, something trivial, but the look on his face carried something darker.
“You don’t know yet, do you?” he murmured, hesitant.
Sansa furrowed her brow. “Know what?”
Arthur hesitated. For a moment, he seemed ready to take it back. But then he exhaled slowly and met her eyes.
“Winterfell… your home… has been taken.”
Sansa’s breath faltered. A chill crept up her spine.
“No. That can’t be true.”
“Theon Greyjoy took it.”
The name struck her like a blade. She stumbled a step backward.
“Theon? That’s a mistake. He grew up with us. He was like… like a brother to Robb.”
Arthur did not answer at once. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with regret.
“From what I’ve heard, Robb sent him to negotiate with his father, Balon Greyjoy, hoping for the support of the Iron Islands. But… instead, Theon swore loyalty to his true house. He returned to the North and used a trick. He sent a man named Dagmer to attack Torrhen’s Square, drawing Winterfell’s men away. When the castle was left unguarded, Theon took it with only thirty men.”
Sansa raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. The words struck like blows, each one crueler than the last.
“He… killed the remaining guards. Your brother, Bran, surrendered the castle to protect the people. Now… Theon has declared himself Prince of Winterfell. And… Bran and Rickon are his hostages.”
She couldn’t bear it. The world spun for a moment. The trees around her seemed to shift like in a bad dream. She had to lean against a tree trunk, her body trembling.
Arthur stepped forward.
“Sansa… please, sit.”
She let him guide her to the tree’s shade. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the grass. The tears came now—hot, unchecked.
“How could he?” she whispered. “Theon… he… he ate at our table. He trained with Robb. Played with Rickon…”
Arthur knelt beside her, hesitating before placing an arm around her shoulders. The gesture was hesitant, almost chaste, but necessary.
“I’m sorry.”
Sansa rested her face on his shoulder, unable to contain the sobs. It felt as if her heart were being ripped from her chest, cruelly and slowly. Winterfell, her home, defiled. Her brothers, in the hands of a traitor. And she, here, in King’s Landing, surrounded by enemies, drowning in feelings she barely understood.
The crying lasted for long minutes. When at last she regained some composure, Sansa pulled back slightly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I… I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
“My brother… Bran is just a child. And Rickon… Rickon is practically still a baby…”
“I know it’s little comfort, but there’s been no word of their deaths. They’re still alive. And Robb… Robb will want it back.”
She nodded faintly. The idea of Robb marching on Winterfell, reclaiming what was theirs by right, brought her some comfort — but also fear. How many would die before that happened?
“You shouldn’t have told me,” she murmured.
Arthur sighed. “Perhaps not. But I thought you deserved to know.”
“Thank you… all the same.”
He nodded, but his eyes lingered on hers.
“If you need anything — anything at all — you can come to me.”
Sansa didn’t respond at once. She simply looked down at the ground, where a few white petals had fallen from the heart tree. Her faith in the gods was all she had left now — and even that faith felt fragile.
She drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself. The world was falling apart around her, but she needed to remain standing. Like her mother. Like a Stark.
But in that moment, Arthur embraced her again, and she allowed herself to be comforted.
***
Joffrey
Joffrey stood by the great window of his chambers, his body erect, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, Tyrion Lannister poured himself wine, sipping slowly as he studied the table before him, where two fresh scrolls lay unrolled.
“From Dorne and the Iron Islands,” Tyrion had said upon entering. “Good news, if you’re Stannis Baratheon. But since we’re not, perhaps we should slit our wrists now and save him the trouble.”
Joffrey did not turn. “Doran Martell only says that Storm’s End has fallen. But we already knew that.”
“Yes. But now we have confirmation from the Prince of Sunspear himself,” Tyrion muttered. “That snake pit can stay silent for years, but when they finally speak, it’s always with poison on their tongues.”
“Let the Dornish keep their poisons and their secrets. What I care about is Balon Greyjoy’s letter.” He extended his hand without looking, and heard the scroll placed into his palm. The seal had been broken by Tyrion, of course — as all things were, under the pretense of “state affairs.”
He read the words slowly. The handwriting was firm, blunt, almost crude, as if each letter were a blow from an axe: Balon Greyjoy, by right of blood and by strength of iron, proclaims himself King of the Isles and the North. Further down, a proposal:
“I send this letter in the name of sovereignty. Let the Iron Throne recognize the dominion of the King of Salt and Stone over the North and the Iron Islands, and in return, I offer my fleet against the enemies of your boy king.” Joffrey closed the scroll with a snap. “He calls me a boy.”
“Worse, he calls you king only if it serves his purpose,” Tyrion commented, refilling his cup. “Still, the offer is generous. His fleet could pose a real problem for Stannis — especially if they block the Narrow Sea routes.”
“Generous?” Joffrey turned, eyes blazing. “He wants me to hand over the North and the Islands. Two of my kingdoms. It’s not enough they’ve taken Winterfell while my grandfather marches? Now he expects me to smile and thank him for it?”
“Not exactly. He expects you to fear Stannis more than you despise a partial surrender.” Tyrion shrugged. “And make no mistake, Joffrey. The North has not been truly ours since Ned Stark lost his head. You hold a title, not a holdfast. And the ironborn have never remained loyal vassals for long.”
“So we should reward them for their disloyalty?” Joffrey took a step forward. “Balon Greyjoy betrayed my father once, and now betrays him again. He calls himself king of what is not his.”
“He’s not the first,” Tyrion retorted. “Renly called himself king, and now he’s dead. Stannis calls himself king, and he’s marching toward our gates.” Tyrion raised a brow. “War has a way of rewriting titles.”
“Then let them rewrite in blood.” Joffrey looked toward the map spread out across the table, where small wooden tokens marked troop positions. Winterfell now bore a kraken sigil above the wolf’s head. “The North is mine. And it will remain mine until the last Stark is dead.”
As he said it, a pang struck his gut. He thought of Sansa. She didn’t know yet. He had never told her about Theon Greyjoy. Whenever the subject veered too close to Winterfell, he had redirected it. Not out of cruelty — or not just cruelty — but because he didn’t know how she would react.
He knew only this: it didn’t matter that it was the Greyjoys who had taken Winterfell. His family still bore the blame.
Maybe she would hate him. Maybe she would weep. Maybe she would beg to leave.
But he wanted her here. With him. Forever.
“And the proposal?” Tyrion asked, breaking the king’s thoughts. “Shall I bring it to the council?”
“No,” Joffrey said, more quickly than he meant to. “Not to the council. Not to my mother. And most certainly, do not reply. Refuse it. The North and the Islands are mine by right. If Balon wishes to style himself a king, let him do so in the drowned halls of Pyke. But we’ll send no envoys. We’ll accept no aid. If the winds sink his fleet and Stannis burns his ships, all the better.”
“Pride, Your Grace, may be a fine armor — but it doesn’t stop arrows,” Tyrion remarked calmly. “You understand you’re refusing a considerable reinforcement in a war that hasn’t truly begun?”
“I’d rather lose a ship than a throne,” Joffrey replied. “Or two kingdoms. He wants me to accept the independence of the Iron Islands and the North. But if I do that, how many others will want the same? The Dornish? The Reach? Even the Riverlands, if Robb Stark sires sons? No. I am King of the Seven Kingdoms. Not five.”
Tyrion nodded slowly. “Strong words, Your Grace. Worthy of a song.”
“Then have one written,” said Joffrey. “But let it be about the king who would not kneel.”
Tyrion smiled faintly and replied, “If I survive the battle, I’ll write it myself.”
The sun had dipped slightly past the battlements of the Red Keep when Hallyne the Pyromancer entered the king’s chambers, flanked by a guard in gleaming armor with a cautious expression. Joffrey was waiting by the window that overlooked the Narrow Sea. Tyrion Lannister sat in a cushioned chair, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the carved wooden armrest.
“Ah, Hallyne, at last,” said Tyrion. “I was hoping you brought answers, not just the stench of brimstone.”
The old pyromancer gave a deep bow. His emerald-green robe swayed with each step, and his scorched gloves betrayed his dangerous craft.
“My Lord Hand, Your Grace,” he said, bowing to Joffrey. “I’ve brought the updated production report, as requested.”
Tyrion took the scroll from the alchemist’s stained hands, his eyes scanning line after line.
“Thirteen thousand jars? Are you trying to incinerate the entire bay, or just blow King’s Landing from the inside?”
Hallyne wrinkled his nose. “We had unexpected fortune. An old cache of Lord Rossart’s was discovered beneath the Dragonpit.”
“Discovered by whom?” Joffrey asked, stepping closer. His curiosity mingled with a poorly disguised boredom.
“By a pleasure house client, Your Grace. A drunken fool who lost himself in the tunnels and mistook the jars for spiced wine. He drank a mouthful before we pulled him out. Survived, miraculously.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Miracles are becoming more frequent these days.”
“I should add, my lord, the old spells seem… reactive. There’s a force in the air. Perhaps due to the rebirth of dragons.”
Joffrey crossed his arms. “That again. Always the dragons. If they exist, they’re far from the Iron Throne.”
“Even so,” said Hallyne, his eyes gleaming with reverence, “the substance we produce is stronger. It burns with fury. It burns in water. It feeds on air.”
Tyrion closed the scroll and stood.
“If only it didn’t burn through our coffers as well. Let me warn you, Hallyne — if any of these jars are empty, or worse, tampered with, it will be the King’s Justice who sees to you.”
Hallyne bowed again, this time more briskly.
“We always strive for excellence, my lord.”
“Excellent. Now go.”
The pyromancer withdrew quickly, taking with him the pungent scent of alchemy. Silence returned to the chambers, broken only by the fading sound of the guard’s sandals down the corridor.
Tyrion cast a sideways glance at the young king, who stared at the door with barely concealed impatience.
“You’re restless, nephew.”
“Yes,” Joffrey said abruptly. “I want to see Sansa.”
Tyrion shook his head with a dry smile.
“The most important matters of the day have been settled. Go. Before my sharp tongue ruins your mood.”
Joffrey didn’t wait for further permission. He left without another word, his red cloak trailing lightly behind him. The afternoon stretched heavy under a clouded sky, and the heat seemed thicker against the red stone of the castle. Joffrey pressed his lips together, his leather gloves creaking as his fists clenched. Her name rang in his head: Sansa.
He passed the staircase guards with a brief nod and made his way to her chambers. The maid informed him with a curtsey that Lady Sansa was not there. He arched an eyebrow, irritated — but held his tongue. He knew she often spent her afternoons in the godswood. At first, he hesitated. That was not a place he frequented. But if there was any corner of the castle that belonged to her, it was that one. And today, he felt a burning need to see her — to hear her voice like balm on the embers that had flared in his mind since morning.
“Perhaps she’s praying for me,” he thought, with a flicker of childish pride. “Perhaps she’s thinking of me, as I think of her.”
The path to the godswood was dim and still, the shadows of the battlements stretching across the stone floor like wary fingers. In the distance, Joffrey spotted Ser Arys Oakheart standing like a living statue near the godswood gate, one hand resting on his sword hilt, his gaze alert but calm. Joffrey did not speak to him, only offered a subtle nod and moved on, his steps light upon the grass.
The air changed as he crossed the threshold of the godswood — cooler, damper. The ancient pines stood in quiet rows like old sentinels, and the leaves whispered with the breeze. The gods were there, in the hush and the damp, in the dimness of a forest surviving behind stone.
He walked slowly, almost silently, a faint smile on his lips, imagining how she might react to seeing him there among her gods. Perhaps she would smile and rise like a lady from a song. Perhaps she would say she loved him. Perhaps…
But then he stopped.
A sound.
Not prayer. Not song.
Sobbing.
Joffrey frowned, pressing himself against a wide oak trunk, hidden among the leaves. Cautiously, he peered through the branches. The blood in his veins turned to ice.
There, seated in the grass, her eyes glistening and her shoulders trembling, was Sansa. Beside her, kneeling, was a young man. His hair was black as pitch, and his arm was draped around her shoulders.
No. It couldn’t be.
His throat tightened.
“You don’t know what I’d give to be home,” Sansa was saying, her voice thick with sorrow. “To be far away from here.”
A punch. It felt like a punch to the gut.
Joffrey stepped back a half-step, instinctively. His stomach churned. The words echoed in his mind: far away from here, give anything to be home. Is that how she felt? Is that what she hid behind her smiles at dinner? Behind her soft kisses and the words she spoke — “I understand you”?
Then the boy moved, leaning toward her slightly, his face drawing near.
Joffrey’s heart faltered.
But before the gesture could be completed, Sansa rose abruptly.
“Arthur… you know I see you only as a good friend,” she said, her voice still shaky. “You know that.”
Arthur, Joffrey thought. So that’s the bastard’s name.
She stopped him. Refused the kiss.
At least she had spared him the humiliation of betrayal. But now Joffrey saw clearly. Sansa might miss her home — of course she did — but if she spoke that way, it was because there was nothing here in King’s Landing that made her want to stay. If she refused the kiss, it was out of fear, not love.
Joffrey withdrew in silence, like a wounded shadow. Anger bubbled within him — hot and thick — along with something worse: shame. How could he have believed it? That she loved him? That a kiss between them meant more than terror? That she would choose him — the king — over Robb, over Winterfell, over freedom?
The pain threatened to spill over. He held it back with force, rubbing a hand over his face when a tear threatened to escape.
“Coward,” he whispered to himself, bitter. “Weak.”
He returned to the castle without haste, but with lowered eyes and clenched fists. He entered the halls like a storm of contained fury. He went first to his chambers, but Tyrion was no longer there, so he continued to the Small Council chamber, where he found him — as always — among maps and scrolls and half-finished cups of wine.
Tyrion looked up as soon as he entered.
“What’s the matter with Your Grace? You look like you’ve just chewed on a horseshoe.”
Joffrey didn’t reply right away. His jaw tensed. He stepped toward the table, studied the maps, and then raised his eyes to the Imp.
“I’m going to marry Margaery Tyrell.”
Notes:
Preview for the next chapter: July 4 (I will also be posting chapters of my other stories that week).
Chapter 14: Blood Flower
Summary:
“I came near you at the Hand’s command. The Imp’s.” The words fell between them with the weight of a stone. “He put me in your path. I… I was to keep you from the king. Draw you from his eyes, distract you when needed.”
Notes:
Hey, everyone... Do you guys hate me, or am I still welcome here? 😅
Guys, I was planning to give my stories a good update during my vacation, but I went to my grandparents' farm in the countryside of Minas Gerais, and the internet there was really bad. Still, I spent my time with my grandparents, with my horse, and writing a lot! So, for a while, this fanfic will be updated every week (usually every Monday). I even think the chapters are better quality than the previous ones because of the time I was able to spend on them. I can't guarantee this quality once the ones I've already written are finished and I'm really busy, but I'll spoil you guys for a while 🤣
I'd like to wish a happy birthday to starsandstarks, who celebrated their birthday on July 28! This chapter is almost 12,000 words long and is entirely dedicated to you! ❤️
Happy reading, everyone!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion
The king’s chamber smelled of lamp oil and the smoke drifting up from the streets — a taste of coal that seemed to cling to the tongue. In the wavering torchlight, the gold of the Lannister banners shifted like the hide of a beast; shadows of lions stretched along the walls, their claws raking the bare stone. Joffrey paced the room in short, quick strides, back and forth like a caged lion. At every turn, his cloak snapped at his heels, and the metal of his belt jingled with impatience. There was a tremor in the boy’s fingers, the kind of tremor that, in men without crowns, is spent on a badly aimed punch; in men with crowns, it is usually spent on other people’s blood.
“They will pay,” he said first, almost to himself. “I’ll make them bleed in the square. I want everyone to see. I want them to learn.”
Tyrion raised his eyes slowly, like a man waking from an undisturbed nap. The wine cup rested untouched within his reach. He felt the heat of the flames and the weight of expectation: the city boiled outside, the bells of some distant sept tolled for nothing and for everything, and the salt of the sea slipped in through unseen cracks, mingled with the promise of rain. He wondered, for an instant, how much of that heavy smell was his doing: since the green hills had begun to glow like glass, rumors of “the Imp’s arts” had spread like sparks.
“May I know,” he asked, with feigned sweetness, “which demon has chosen to bite Your Grace today? If there’s still one left that hasn’t enjoyed that pleasure.”
Joffrey stopped. Only for a heartbeat — long enough to turn his face and pour a green, furious glare into his uncle’s eyes. Sweat dotted the king’s brow; the torchlight caught on it in a damp shimmer, almost childish. In other men, rage lent weight; in Joffrey, it lent only haste.
“I saw.” He spat the word like a fruit pit. “With my own eyes. She… leaning on his shoulder… crying. Saying how she misses home. Like some vulgar peasant girl offering her favors.” His voice pitched higher, thin and breathless. “I will not tolerate it. They will die — both of them. Her and that cursed black-haired bastard I’ll soon find out the name of.”
Tyrion tilted his head. So there it was, the root of the fever. Sansa Stark, weeping in the godswood. Of course she missed home. Even the stones of the Hand’s court missed home under this crown. Not that he would ever say so aloud. The boy before him was not made of reason; he was made of impulses. And there was a fine line between stoking the right embers and setting the whole room ablaze.
“Brilliant plan, nephew.” Tyrion picked up the cup and let the wine play along the rim. “Nothing inspires the people quite like killing their sweet northern bride in the midst of a war. Songs will be composed about such wisdom. I daresay I could coax a bard into rhyming ‘imbecile’ with ‘king’ and still make it sound like praise.”
Joffrey’s eyes went wide, and his mouth twisted in that familiar grimace, half disgust, half incomprehension. “You don’t understand! He touched her! He… he took her for himself, in my godswood! All must see the fate of traitors. All must learn to fear.”
“Ah.” Tyrion leaned back, the leather creaking beneath his weight. “Fear. The old Lannister lullaby. Well then, since we’re speaking of songs, allow me to compose another tune for Your Grace’s ears. One that might spare us some off-key shrieking.”
He raised a short, ringed finger.
“First: practicality. There is no proof. I know a king’s word, in some mouths, weighs like iron. In others, it weighs like feathers. Yours may crush if there’s stone beneath; without stone, it scatters only dust. To kill the boy without proof would stain the honor of the throne — and honor, unlike blood, cannot be replenished by the bucket.”
He lifted a second finger.
“Second: politics. The people are restless. They are hungry, they are afraid, and when bellies growl, ears grow sharper for stories that ill serve a king. A squire slain out of jealousy in the godswood becomes a plebeian saint in half a day. We’ll see candles for a torch-lighter, vows shouted in the streets, and with luck, another of those delightful riots full of dirty hands dragging nobles by the hair. Personally, I prefer my head to remain where it is.”
The king’s fists clenched. His nails bit into his palms, a fleeting gesture of one who imagines another’s blood and, for a moment, tastes his own. He began pacing again, two strides, three, and stopped before a narrow window. The city below was a sea of rooftops and smoke. The river glimmered with a false light.
“And third,” Tyrion said at last, bringing the wine to his lips, “the power of terror when the blade does not fall.” The third finger rose, stubborn. “If you kill him, it ends. Fear dies with the corpse. But if you let him live, under your leash… every step he takes will be a petition to the king. Every breath, a favor grudgingly granted. Nothing terrifies more than a sentence left hanging over one’s head.”
Joffrey glared. “You always have a speech for everything, uncle.”
“It’s almost as if I think before I act,” Tyrion said, smiling. “A loathsome habit, I know. I inherited it from your grandfather.”
“My grandfather wasted no time on speeches.” Joffrey’s hand found the hilt of his dagger, and the metal hummed softly. “He acted.”
“And acted much better when he let others speak for him.” Tyrion spun the ring on his finger. “Had he cared more for seeming just and less for spilling blood, your father would not have died with sour wine in his throat.”
The mention of Robert tightened the boy’s jaw; a flicker of discomfort he would never confess. He drew a deep breath and stalked back to the center of the room, his boots beating an impatient rhythm.
“I want them to suffer,” he pressed on, stubborn as ever. “She lied to me. All those smiles, all that sweetness… all of it false. He stole her from me, like a thief. The people must see what happens to those who steal from the king.”
“Steal.” Tyrion shrugged. “I know of a crown stolen by a handful of steel and wine. That’s what brought us here, if memory serves.”
“Shut your mouth.” The words cracked, brittle with fury. “You think my commands weigh less than your schemes? You think you can use me as your pawn?”
“I use you as nothing, nephew. I protect you from yourself. And, in the bargain, I try to protect the city.” Tyrion set down the cup. “You want to kill a boy to soothe a jealous whim. And you want to kill your northern bride — the same girl who still serves us, mind you, as a bridge to the North when the winds change. That, in the middle of a war at our gates. If this seems wisdom to you, then your detractors are right.”
Joffrey lifted his chin, the favored gesture of boys trying to look like men. The torchlight danced in his eyes. For a moment, all his fury seemed to swell anew; Tyrion knew, in that instant, that the conversation would be decided here. A thread of saliva glistened at the corner of the king’s mouth as his grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt. The dwarf did not look away. Like all beasts, even those with golden pelts, Joffrey understood the language of steady eyes.
“Without proof,” Tyrion went on softly, as if soothing a skittish colt, “you will look like a boy killing out of spite. With proof… well, I would love to see it. Do you have any? A forgotten handkerchief? A curious septon? Or only your certainty, one more among the many that have already cost us dearly?”
The silence that followed was as long as an empty street at night. The fire crackled louder, and from far off came the indistinct cry of a sailor, or perhaps a drunk. Joffrey breathed once, twice; the dagger’s pommel lost weight in his clenched hand.
“Then let him live,” he said at last. The words came rough, scoured with frustration. “But I want invisible chains on him. I want him always under my eyes. A dog on a short leash.” He leaned forward, as if speaking to an animal that obeys only when the tone promises pain. “And as for Sansa — she will go back to suffering at my hand.”
Tyrion felt the familiar chill in his gut, that small weight that accompanied every partial victory. He had saved the boy’s head and the girl’s life — for now. But the promise of cruelty hung in the chamber like a persistent fly. And words fly, promises too. Sometimes they land on the neck of the one who made them.
“Your Grace,” he said, cloaking venom in silk, “the realm will praise your mercy.”
“Let them praise.” Joffrey wiped his brow with a sharp, impatient gesture. “I want that squire at every one of my trainings. I want to know when he wakes, when he eats, who he speaks to. If he yawns at the wrong hour, I will know. And Sansa…” He smiled, that thin, almost tender smile that always made Tyrion think of blades. “Sansa will learn that the king does not forget.”
“Kings who remember too much usually die young,” Tyrion remarked lightly. “But as the unpaid counselor to Your Royal Wisdom, I propose a small adjustment: let me handle the invisible part. Chains chafe less when they don’t shine.”
Joffrey looked at him as if weighing whether it was worth arguing further, or if the real pleasure lay in keeping his uncle at arm’s-length in disdain. “Do as you wish, so long as I see him bite when I command it.”
“That is indeed what leashes are for,” Tyrion replied, bowing his head in a half-gesture of respect that wasn’t respect at all. “And for dogs to dream they still have teeth.”
When he left the chamber, he carried with him the taste of soot and metal. The corridor felt colder, or perhaps it was only the relief of breathing away from the boy-king. I got what could be gotten, he thought. The rest is the same old dance: a king who wants to kill to feel like a man, and an uncle who must convince him to look like a man so the realm won’t die. The low roar of the sea reached him like ancient counsel. In the distance, thunder. Or cannons, imagined by nervous men.
The beast had been quieted, yes — but not tamed. And unlike the lions on the banners, this one hungered for flesh. Still, there was one triumph: Joffrey had agreed to wed the Tyrell girl.
~.~
The corridor leading to the stables was a stone gut beneath the Red Keep: narrow, damp, with a thread of wind that carried sea-salt and the rust of harnesses. Torches fixed in twisted iron brackets spat short crackles as Tyrion passed; the dwarf felt the heat nip at his cheek, then give way to the draft rising from below, mingled with the acrid stench of horse dung, greasy leather, and wet straw. Two squires whispered against a doorway; they fell silent at once when they saw the Hand of the King, lowering their heads in wary respect — the kind learned early by those who know that reverence is just another way to survive.
“Leave us,” Tyrion said, in a soft tone that asked for nothing. It was dismissal.
They vanished like rats. The dwarf pressed onward, his hand trailing along a polished groove in the wall where centuries of shoulders and cloaks had worn the stone smooth. The stable opened before him: a low nave, wooden ribs lost in shadow, where dust swam in shafts of light that filtered through the lattice. Horses snorted in their stalls; a stableboy let a crop fall like a guilty secret when he saw the visitor.
Arthur Whitehill waited in a corner, hooded by shadow. The boy was pale; in the young, Tyrion thought, fear had a very particular color — a mixture of curdled milk and fever. The northerner stroked the forehead of a mare without really touching her; his hands hovered, hesitant, as if he feared leaving marks the king might sniff out later. He had the broad shoulders of one accustomed to carrying other men’s saddles and shields, a jaw badly shaven, and eyes that strained to look brave — which, in itself, was a bad sign.
“Arthur,” Tyrion called softly.
The boy turned with a start, striking his shoulder against the post. “My lord.”
“Long walks make one thirsty.” Tyrion lifted the skin hanging at his belt and took a short swallow of sour wine. “Unfortunately, the Citadel has never stooped to quenching the thirst of fools. And today there are plenty of fools about.”
Arthur tried to smile. He failed. “You summoned me, my lord.”
“It was prudent to come.” Tyrion stopped two paces away, positioning himself so that a thick pillar stood between them and the stable’s entrance. He liked pillars: they reminded him that the heaviest structures collapsed when the right piece was pulled away. “I have no fine poems to recite, so I’ll be plain. The king saw you with Lady Sansa in the godswood.”
It was as if the boy had taken a kick to the gut. Air vanished from his throat; his eyes filled at once, shining like a cornered animal’s. “He’s going to kill me, my lord. The king is going to kill me. I must leave today, now!”
“And run where? Into the sea? Into Stannis’ arms, who, I suppose, would be very eager to receive the king’s squire — if only to nail him to a stake as a token of good faith?” Tyrion shook his head, patient. “A pawn that abandons the board mid-game draws more notice than one that stays. If you flee, Joffrey has reason to believe you guilty. If you remain, you can be nothing more than… a misinterpreted squire.”
“I wasn’t the one who—” Arthur choked on the words, trying to compose himself. The mare snorted behind him, as if in comment. “My lord, I… I never touched her in disrespect. She was crying. I swear it by the gods.”
“I believe you.” Tyrion scratched his beard, turning his ring in an old habit. “But oaths rarely pass through walls. What does pass through walls are suppositions, and the king preferred his own. He is furious. So furious he wants your head and the girl’s. Luckily, I have some talent for dousing other men’s fires when I see they’ll burn down my own house.”
Arthur stepped forward. “Then help me escape.”
Tyrion raised a hand, slicing through the plea. “Don’t overstate your importance, boy. Joffrey has wanted to kill half the realm at one time or another; you’re no exception. The difference is, I can hold him back… up to a point.” He let the words up to a point fall between them like the edge of a blade. “If you flee, you harden the king’s fantasy. Worse, you draw his gaze still more toward Lady Sansa — and that is precisely what I mean to avoid.”
The northerner trembled; not much, but enough that his fingertips beat a nervous rhythm against the leather of his scabbard. “He’ll find a way to kill me here. An ‘accident’ in the yard. A forced duel. A shove on the stairs. I’ve heard tales of Mandon Moore. Of Ser Boros. I… I haven’t slept since—”
“Since the godswood felt like a sept and a sin at the same time. I understand.” Tyrion drew a steady breath. In truth, he understood well: boys fall for the kind of tears no storm brings, and kings fall into hatred for the kind of embrace they cannot give. “The plan is simple, because complicated plans drown in their own details. You will remain in the castle as if nothing happened. You will wake when you always wake, saddle the same horses, eat the same thin soup, and lower your eyes when the king passes.”
Arthur clenched his fists. “And when he calls me to the yard?”
“You will go.” Tyrion bit off a short smile. “It will be a show. The king likes shows: they give him the illusion he commands the script. You will take blows, fall in the sand if need be, bleed enough to sate the crowd. But you will rise. The trick is not to win; it is to endure.”
“Endure.” Arthur repeated the word like one repeating a bad charm.
“In the meantime, I will manage the invisible chains.” Tyrion tipped his head toward the arcade that led outside. From the street came the sound of hammering nails into planks, then another — the city preparing its own defenses. “Soon, the bells will ring differently. The river will smell of alchemy and fear. There will be screams that begin nowhere near mouths. On the day the Blackwater looks like fire, many men will forget their vows. And that will be the moment you slip away.”
“The Battle of the Blackwater,” Arthur whispered.
“When many flee in the chaos, that will be your chance to vanish unseen.” Tyrion let the wineskin hang and wiped a smear of wine with his thumb. “You won’t leave through the great gates. Important men die at great gates. There are posterns, passages, holes that the wind knows better than the guards. I’ll tell you which, when the hour is ripe.”
“And until then?” Fear mingled with the dregs of anger, as it does in those who no longer know if they are alive from courage or from lack of options. “I just wait here until he cuts me down in training?”
“Pray for the king’s victory, squire. For in victory, he may forget you. And in defeat, we will all flee together.” Tyrion stepped closer, until the smell of damp straw and Arthur’s sweat reached his nose. “Listen well: do not speak to Sansa. Do not look at her unless you must. Do not comfort her. Do not try to explain yourself. What damns you in Joffrey’s eyes is not what you did, but what he imagines you would do if you had the courage. Don’t feed a boy-king’s imagination. Feed him routine.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “And if the queen… if Cersei calls for me? Or he does? Or someone… someone asks what happened in the godswood?”
“Treat the truth like a polished saddle: touch it only where your thigh can bear it. You walked, you saw her, she wept, you bowed, you left. The rest is fog. If they press, you are a stable fool. Speak of harnesses, of locks, of grease. Nothing dulls quicker than ignorance.” Tyrion arched a brow. “As for the queen… never grant her the honor of a secret. Majesty despises those who keep something from her. Answer little, look less, and pray Cersei finds distraction elsewhere.”
The mare behind Arthur flicked her ears and rubbed her muzzle against the wood. A feed sack shifted nearby, sending up a sneeze of dust that glittered like old gold in a spear of light. There is beauty even in stables, Tyrion thought, when death decides to look for another yard for a while.
“I… I don’t know if I can,” Arthur let slip, almost to himself. “Sometimes I think it’s better to… end it quickly. This daily fear can’t be worse.”
“Oh, you can.” Tyrion spoke in a tone almost gentle, which in him always hid blades. “Cowardice survives where courage dies of pride. And don’t take it as an insult. Living is also a coward’s work when the king wants us to die prettily. You owe me a few more days of breathing. Pay them.”
Arthur’s eyes widened. Perhaps he expected a touch on the shoulder, some scrap of comfort. He received none. The northerner nodded — a minimal gesture, like a man accepting the headsman’s sentence with a bow instead of a scream.
“One more thing,” Tyrion said. “If he injures you in the yard — and he will — don’t look for the girl. Look for the maester. Look for water, look for cloths. Donate your blood to the sand, not to the king. People forget cuts when the next story begins; Joffrey does not. He remembered my face his whole life for a slap I gave. Your shoulder will hurt less than his memory.”
“Yes, my lord.” Arthur drew a deep breath. He seemed to grow an inch, just enough for his body to remember it still had bones.
Tyrion straightened his cloak, readying himself to leave. “I’ll send word when it’s time to go. Until then, make yourself a shadow. And if you’re called to the yard today, don’t try to shine. Shadows last longer.”
“Th— thank you.” Gratitude came out crooked, guilt clinging to its edges. “If I manage it… if I stay alive… I—”
“Live,” Tyrion said, turning away. “We’ll decide the rest when there is a rest.”
He took three steps and stopped, remembering something. “Arthur.”
“My lord?”
“If anyone asks why the Hand of the King came to speak with you in the stables… say I wanted to know which horses start at shouting. And that you showed me three. The rest is chaff.” A brief smile. “It’s always chaff.”
The boy nodded again, steadier this time. Fear had not left him — fear rarely leaves those who learn its language — but now it had a frame around it, and frames sometimes keep paintings from crumbling.
Tyrion moved off, his body grateful for the cooler light of the corridor. On the threshold he glanced back: Arthur had returned to stroking the mare, this time truly laying his hand upon her, as if trying to remember what it is to be seen by a creature that doesn’t know what a king is. The dwarf thought of invisible chains — those he had slipped upon his nephew, and those he now fastened to the squire. Nothing in the Red Keep stood upright because of stone; it stood because of bonds that eyes pretended not to see.
The corridor to the queen’s apartments was far too wide for Tyrion’s steps, and the guards before the door — two men of the gold cloaks, spears crossed — looked him over as if measuring the nuisance of an unwelcome guest. But nuisances wear red cloaks and the Hand’s seal, and the men made way. The smell reached him before the door closed at his back: a sweet fog of incense, mixed with the heavy perfume of old roses and wine spilled on carpets that would not see the sun for months. Cersei’s chamber was a gilded cage, and every heavy curtain, every tapestry showing triumphant lions, seemed to hide poison.
She reclined on a couch, a cup of wine halfway to her lips, her hair loose in a golden cascade over green silk. A brazier smoked in the corner, sending up thick fumes that curled around her like a serpent. The glow of the coals painted her features, making her half saint, half courtesan, half something worse. When she lifted her eyes to her brother, Tyrion remembered every epithet fit for a woman who knew too much and still always demanded more wine.
“So you came after all,” she said, lazy as if addressing a cat. “I thought you were too busy playing with alchemists and little green fires.”
Tyrion dragged a low chair over and sat without asking. “I only play when I have time left over from my babysitting. And, sadly, my nephew has been troublesome.”
Her eyes lit, malice gleaming like polished stone. “What, tired of ordering him to do nothing? I hear he’s furious. With the Stark girl.”
Tyrion turned the ring on his finger and let a smile ease into place. “Furious is the mild of it. He wavered between tearing a squire’s head off and nailing shut the sweet skull of his betrothed. But, as always, I had to show him that blood is sometimes less useful than a rumor.”
Cersei sat up straighter, eyes fixed on her brother. “So it’s true. He saw her with… whom, exactly?”
“A squire. Arthur, so I hear. A northern lad of humble birth, if I’m not mistaken.” Tyrion shrugged. “Nothing but an embrace. But for eyes that only know how to see betrayal, it was enough.”
The queen laughed — not loudly, but with a venomous, toothy sound. “Then my son has finally opened his eyes. That little Stark dove brings nothing but shame to our house. I said from the start that this alliance was a loose collar.”
“Dove or not,” Tyrion replied, “she is still useful. Dead, she’s good only as a corpse. And corpses fetch a poor price, in my experience.”
“Useful to whom?” Her cup clinked against the arm of the couch. “To you, I suppose. Your plans always have a use. And curiously, everything seems to fall into place in the end. One betrothal broken, another bride ready to step in… it almost looks as if you’re pulling the strings.”
Tyrion took a sip of wine, only to laugh right after. “If I were pulling strings, dear sister, I’d make the king dance better than a limping drunk at a feast. And you know how I hate bad music.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You always have an answer. Always a joke. But you don’t fool me, Tyrion. You never have. I know your scent from afar, as I know the scent of the wine you just brought me.” She leaned in, her hair swaying like golden snakes. “Robb will not trade Jaime for Sansa. So why defend the girl? Think it’s kindness? You expect me to believe that?”
“Kindness?” Tyrion arched a brow. “You insult me. If it were kindness, you’d have made me a septon long ago. No, sister, it isn’t kindness. It’s calculation. While Sansa lives, the North can be tricked into thinking it still has ties to the crown. If she dies… the wolf turns beast in earnest.”
“Wolves are already beasts.” Cersei drank again, the wine staining her lips like blood. “But I take your point. Even so, you seem more concerned with saving the squire than the girl. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
Tyrion let out a short bark of laughter. “Saving squires was never in my notebook. I’m merely stating the obvious: if the king kills a man without proof, he’ll look like a wounded boy. And we have too many enemies waiting to call him boy.”
“Better a cruel boy than a weak king.” Her tone was conviction itself. “The people fear steel. They always will. If Joffrey cuts off the lad’s head, no one will dare embrace Sansa again.”
“Or they will embrace her in secret, weeping in alleys, and they’ll make songs of martyrs.” Tyrion propped his chin on his hand. “Fear is useful, sister, but only until the day it turns into hatred. You drink wine, but you know there’s a limit before your stomach throws it all back. Joffrey is already close to that limit with the people.”
Cersei fell silent for a moment, measuring him like a target at range. Then she spoke, slower: “Curious how everything always ends the way you want, brother. Sansa cast aside at the very moment another bride steps in. Don’t you find it strange that you always come out better than you went in?”
Tyrion smiled, but the smile had edges. “Strange is that you’ve yet to learn that what looks like victory isn’t always victory. I make a living surviving the family that birthed me. That’s not winning, dear sister, it is merely… continuing to breathe.”
The queen leaned back once more, but her eyes did not leave him. Suspicion lingered like smoke: never vanishing, only shifting shape. “You deny everything, but I can feel when you’re lying. I always have. Don’t forget that.”
“And you forget that I didn’t lie about the wine I brought.” Tyrion raised his cup. “Care to taste it?”
“I prefer mine.” She tilted back her own goblet, the red sliding down her throat in a long swallow.
The silence that followed was not peace, but suspended war. She reclined on the couch, satisfied as a cat that had snared a bird. He settled into the low chair, satisfied that he still had a tongue with which to answer. But both knew: nothing was resolved.
Cersei left content with Sansa’s “release”; Tyrion left content for having kept control. But both left suspicious of each other, as always. In the court of lions, trust was always the sourest wine.
***
Joffrey
Rage was a fever that would not break. Not after hours, not after short hunts in the yards, not after commanding steel to strike against steel just to hear the clangor. The conversation with his uncle still pounded in his skull like a hammer on an anvil. Tyrion, with his mocking eyes, always finding words to make him small. The half-man who fancied himself whole.
Joffrey strode down the corridor, his cloaks dragging across the polished floor, and entered his own chambers. The rooms smelled of old wine and melted wax; torches burned along the walls, casting lions in distorted shadows. The king hurled his leather gloves at a chair, his crown clinked as he dropped it onto a table, and a plate of forgotten fruit went flying to the floor in a sudden burst of fury. Grapes scattered like tiny rolling heads.
He breathed heavily, chest heaving. He wanted to see blood. He wanted to feel a blade slice through flesh. But he could not — not Sansa’s, not yet, nor Arthur’s, not without proof. His uncle had been right on that point, much as it enraged him to admit. But there were other bodies in King’s Landing, and some existed for no reason but to be used.
“Bring me a woman,” he ordered the nearest servant. The girl flinched, bobbed an awkward curtsey, and fled.
He began pacing the chamber, back and forth like a hunted beast. Heat burned beneath his skin. A dog on a short leash — he recalled Tyrion’s words. His uncle thought he had tamed him, thought the king rested in his palm. But no. The king could choose where to bite, and he would bite.
It did not take long. Two gold cloaks appeared, dragging between them a woman in a worn dress, her face hastily painted, a perfume too sweet struggling to smother the stench of the street. Joffrey lifted his chin, inspecting her. She was young, but not naive. Her eyes had seen too much already — not that it mattered.
“Leave her,” he commanded. The guards shoved her inside and closed the door.
She bent low, her voice thin: “Your Grace.”
“Shut your mouth.”
The woman obeyed, retreating a step, her fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. Joffrey advanced slowly, like a hunter circling prey. The silence was broken only by the crackle of flames and the faint creak of the window chains.
“Lie down.”
She hesitated for a fraction of an instant. That was enough for him to raise his hand and strike her across the face, her head snapping with the blow. The sharp crack of the slap echoed through the chamber.
“I said: lie down.”
The woman obeyed in haste, stretching herself on the wide bed with its red curtains. Joffrey came closer and climbed atop her. What followed had no sweetness, no pretense. It was the spilling of pent-up violence, each thrust a punishment dealt to an imagined enemy. He hurt her, ignored her whimpers of pain, ignored the blood that welled when his nail split her skin. She tried to turn, tried to beg, but he gripped her hair and wrenched her back.
It was not pleasure. It was only discharge, like spitting fire through a strangled throat. He did not see the woman; he saw Sansa weeping on Arthur’s shoulder, Tyrion’s ever-mocking eyes, every soul who dared laugh at him. Each movement was a blow against shadows.
When it was over, he was breathless, but no relief filled his chest — only emptiness. A cold emptiness that demanded to be filled with more pain. The woman sobbed for breath, her face turned aside, eyes brimming with fear.
Joffrey drew the short dagger from his belt. The blade caught the firelight. He traced it along her throat, lightly, just enough to see her skin rise in gooseflesh. Her breath hitched.
“Your Grace, please…”
The plea disgusted him. He did not want to hear voices. His hand clamped around her neck and squeezed. First slowly, then harder, until he felt resistance weaken. The woman struggled, her nails scratching his arms, but the king did not relent. He pressed until her breath failed, until her eyes rolled back, until her body lost the fight and sagged lifeless.
When he released her, silence was absolute. Life had vanished like a candle snuffed by wind.
Joffrey stood over the body, chest heaving. He gazed at her face without expression. No remorse, no weight. Only the calm that comes once the act is done — the same calm one feels after smashing something against a wall and watching the shards glitter on the floor.
He wiped the dagger on the dead woman’s skirt, shoved the body aside, and lay down in the empty space as if nothing had happened. His breathing slowed. Hatred cooled for a moment, turned into a shadow of satisfaction.
He closed his eyes, fingers playing with the dagger’s hilt. Sansa will weep too, when her turn comes, he thought, before letting sleep take him.
~.~
The doors of the Great Sept of Baelor opened with a crash of iron and wood, and the brilliance inside swallowed Joffrey like a domestic sun. The incense was so thick it could have been cut with a blade, the sweet aroma mingled with the press of bodies. The high windows spilled colors across the marble: red stains like blood, green like poison, gold like his crown. The sound of prayers rose in waves, murmured and sung, filling every corner of the dome.
He walked at the center, his golden cloak billowing, and felt every eye upon him. Every eye was always upon him. The crown gleamed on his hair as a reminder — any boy might wear metal, but on him it was true gold. Gold cloaks carved the way with their spears, and wherever he passed the people bent low, like grass to the wind. Power was there. And so was a bitter taste: the memory of the night before, of cold release, of dead flesh beside him in bed. None of it had been enough. Rage still burned under his skin.
Then he saw her.
Sansa stood before the altar, veiled in blue, her gown molding her slender frame. The stained-glass light poured over her hair, and for an instant Joffrey thought of strands of gold finer than his mother’s. She was too beautiful to be real. And too false not to be punished. The moment her eyes met his, she bowed in reverence, a gesture delicate, practiced like everything she did. She pretends, always pretends, he thought. Yet his heart quickened all the same.
He approached, and murmurs swelled. The king and his betrothed — the sight everyone loved. He raised his hand, and she took it. Her touch was light, almost timid. Joffrey smiled, the flawless smile he had learned before mirrors, and ran his fingers down her arm. To onlookers, it was tenderness. To the one who felt it, it was threat.
“Your Grace,” Sansa said sweetly, though her voice trembled. “I missed you. Yesterday… I did not see you. I thought perhaps you were angry with me.”
Joffrey leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, but the smile never wavered for the faithful. “I was busy,” he answered, cold as stone. “And angry, yes. Very.”
She lifted her blue eyes, clouded with doubt. “What did I do to…?”
“I know your secret.” The words slid like poison.
“Secret?” She blinked, surprise real or feigned — it didn’t matter. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I saw you.” His hand crushed hers, fingers nearly grinding bone. The smile on his lips was sweet, but his eyes burned. “I saw you in the godswood. In another man’s arms.”
She went pale. Joffrey took pleasure in watching the color drain from her face. “Your Grace… no… it was only… Arthur is just a—”
“I will hear no more lies from your mouth.” The tone was low and hard, like steel rasping. To those nearby, it sounded like a lover’s confidence. To her, it was a sentence.
“Please, let me explain. He’s only a friend. I—”
“Be quiet.” His thumb stroked her skin in a tender gesture, but the nail scratched beneath the silk. “You’re lucky I cannot prove your treachery. But don’t delude yourself: our betrothal is already ended. Merely not before the court. Not yet.”
The septons’ chant boomed beneath the dome, and the contrast was delicious. The world saw a gentle king comforting his bride. Joffrey saw only her lie, felt only the need to crush it.
Sansa’s eyes shone with restrained tears. “Arthur is just a friend. I would never betray you.”
“You’re a poor actress,” Joffrey murmured, with a smile to enchant any onlooker. “But you tremble so well. So pretty, when you tremble. How fortunate for you.”
He gripped her hard, and to anyone watching it looked like a passionate caress. Two common men pointed and smiled, delighted by the sight. An old woman muttered a blessing. The deception was perfect.
But Sansa was rigid, frozen like prey in the instant before the bite. Joffrey could feel her heart hammering against his palm. It was music better than any hymn.
He stroked her arm, leaned even closer: “Don’t forget, little dove. I see everything. I always will. And when the time comes, no one will dare comfort you.”
She did not answer. She only breathed in short, quick bursts, struggling to remain upright.
The chanting ended, and silence filled the space. Joffrey released her hand slowly, as if reluctant, as if it pained him to let go. The crowd saw love. He felt only satisfied hatred.
He turned and walked the length of the sept, his cloak dragging across the marble. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He knew she was still there, standing like a statue, fighting the tremor. And the thought warmed his chest: she will weep too, but it will be in my arms, and I alone will decide when.
~.~
The sun beat hard upon the training yard, a white disc that made the metal sing louder and the sand lift scents of hot stone and sweat. The crack of practice swords, the curt shouts of instructors, the scrape of boots on the ground — it all sounded like a single drum, a martial cadence reminding every man there who the king was. Joffrey liked that sound. He liked even more to know that the sound dimmed when he entered.
Gold Cloaks snapped into line at once, lion banners stirring lazily in the heat. Young lords watched from the shade of an arcade, laughing too loudly, trying to look like warriors; squires hurried past with helms and shields; an old armorer hammered rivets in a corner, making fall a fine rain of sparks that died before they touched the sand. The smell of oiled leather mingled with that of freshly honed iron. Joffrey halted in the center and breathed it in as other men breathe incense.
He took the practice sword offered him — heavy wood, well balanced — raised it, turned his wrist, feeling the weight fall into its rightful place. A captain of the guard approached with a bow.
“With whom does Your Grace wish to begin?”
“With whomever I please.” Joffrey smiled without showing teeth. He let his gaze drift slowly over the yard, like a cat choosing which little bird to pluck first. He saw faces that flattered, faces trying not to look afraid, faces feigning respect because they knew no other thing. And then he needed look no further: Arthur was there, half to the side, a shield on his arm, head bare — and a look that tried to be nothing at all.
The king felt heat rise under his skin. “You.” The word dropped like a blow. “Squire. Arthur, isn’t it?”
Arthur stopped as if he’d struck an invisible wall. “Your Grace.”
“Come.” The tone was casual, almost friendly. From a distance, one might think the king called a servant to demonstrate a few strokes. But Joffrey’s eyes burned behind his smile, and those who knew him would have recognized the fire.
Arthur came. He walked like a man remembering all his oaths at once. He bowed, offered a helm, offered a shield, offered anything the king might want. Joffrey dismissed the offerings with an impatient tilt of his head.
“Swords. Start light.”
They put a practice blade in Arthur’s hands to match the king’s. The two woods touched in a first tock that spread through the yard like an announcement.
Joffrey judged the distance and stepped in. A high cut to test, a low one to draw the guard, a third aimed at the flank. Arthur answered properly, as the rules demand: rear foot set, forearm firm, shoulder loose, yielding without yielding too much. Good enough to be irritating, the king thought. That was what made him feel most alive: the idea that the boy could pretend normalcy here, before him, as if the godswood had not existed, as if Sansa had not wept upon his shoulder.
“Northerners dance poorly,” Joffrey said, turning his wrist and cracking the wood down from high to low. “But I see they’ve taught you not to trip.”
“I try to learn, Your Grace.” The answer came respectful, almost humble. Almost.
The king stepped in, pebbles snapping under his boot. He forced the tempo. Strike, thrust, sweep. Weight building on his shoulders, heat biting his nape. Arthur fell back, steady. He thinks this is practice, Joffrey thought, with a cool delight. He thinks wood will save him. He pressed harder. Made his opponent pivot a hip, give a flank, take another angle. Then he broke the pattern, accelerating without warning — a tock, tock, TOCK-TOCK that caught the squire off-balance and punched a short ah from his mouth.
“Careful,” Joffrey said sweetly. “A king may stumble, but he never falls.”
Laughter rose beneath the arcades. The captain of the guard smiled a smile that never reached his eyes. The armorer paused his hammer for a heartbeat to watch. Joffrey heard it all, and it gave him strength.
They circled. Arthur tried a timid initiative — a high feint, a half-cut at the ribs. Joffrey welcomed it, blocked, and in the block let his opponent believe weight was driving him back. In the next instant he rolled his wrist, took the line, and brought a sharp blow down on the squire’s forearm. Wood cracked loud. Arthur gasped, his hand numbed, and his sword very nearly fell.
“Again.” Joffrey didn’t wait. He went. A smash against the shield, a shoulder-barge, a stamping kick that threw sand. He wanted to feel the other’s balance fail, wanted to see the first hairline fracture of fear in the boy’s eyes. He saw it. It was a wine finer than any other.
“Your Grace…” Arthur recovered, his eyes flicking for just an instant — only an instant — to the edge of the yard, hunting perhaps for an exit that did not exist.
“Look at me.” The king’s voice cut like a blade. “At me.”
They clashed again. Joffrey dropped his guard by an inch, offered a false opening; Arthur, well-trained, did not take it. Learned something in these halls, did you? admitted a distant part of the king. The nearer part burned with the urge to claw at that composure.
“Enough with wood,” Joffrey said, never taking his eyes from the other. “Bring steel.”
The yard froze. The captain stepped forward, uncertain. “Your Grace, perhaps—”
“I said steel.” The word ricocheted off the walls.
They brought two blunted swords, polished and heavy — still enough to split flesh if wielded without care. Joffrey seized his as one seizes a truth. Arthur, slower, weighed his own blade in his hands, drew a deep breath. A bead of sweat glimmered at his temple.
“Begin,” the king ordered.
The first ring of steel on steel was a bell. The second, a promise. On the third, Joffrey broke rhythm once more, surging forward with a ferocity that had no place in practice. High guard, change of level, thrust low, drag upward. Arthur caught two, failed on the third, the king’s blade scraping the squire’s shoulder — not a cut, but a bite through the gambeson. A thin red line welled up, stubborn, slow, then quicker. The noise of the yard dimmed; murmurs rose.
“Oops.” Joffrey smiled, leaning as if apologizing for a misstep at a dance. “Steel slips. Who’d have thought.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. He wasn’t, and that was what the king wanted to hear: the small lie of those just beginning to bleed.
“Again.”
They came together. Joffrey struck with the haste of one who no longer wanted games. His arm remembered rage better than his head; his hand found its path by sheer appetite. Blade slammed shield, struck steel, slid back to the shoulder — this time deeper. The fabric gave with a short sound, almost a sigh. Blood ran hot, a few drops spattering the sand.
The yard froze. The captain lifted his chin, the young lords in the arcade went silent like children caught in mischief, the armorer’s mouth hung open, his hammer forgotten. This was no training. This was punishment.
Arthur staggered a step, steadied himself. His face had gone pale as plaster. His mouth opened and closed, soundless.
Joffrey felt joy rise in his chest, choking. “Does it hurt?” The question came sweet, intimate, whispered low as Joff bent as if to help him. “Does it hurt more than embracing weeping maidens?”
The squire lifted his guard on instinct alone. And he would have taken another blow — and perhaps the next one would have been the last — had not a voice broken the spell of the yard:
“Enough.”
Tyrion. His uncle emerged from the shadow of a pillar, his cloak marking the stones as though sketching another banner across the floor. He did not shout. He had no need. The silence had already done the work.
Joffrey did not lower his sword. He held it high, the stance of one not yet decided whether the next stroke would strike for honor or for heart. Sweat trickled down his temples, stung his eyes; he blinked, angry, without showing it. He heard his own breath, short, fierce.
“It’s practice, Uncle,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Your Excellency is welcome to watch. Or to be silent.”
“Practice rarely pierces shoulders.” Tyrion took two more steps, unhurried. “Nor does it turn blunted steel into a blade of pride. The yard has eyes. The city, tongues.”
“Let them look.” Joffrey turned half a step, so his voice carried to the arcades. “And let them listen.” His chest rose and fell, and the phrase came all at once, hot, certain — a stone hurled from within: “Even kings swallow too much in silence, Uncle. But I will not swallow forever.”
The yard breathed again. Some exchanged glances; others, like the captain, preferred to study their boots. Arthur stood by sheer stubbornness and shame, his shoulder soaking through his sleeve. Joffrey gave him one last look — the boy avoided his eyes, and that, more than anything, seemed both victory and insult.
The king dropped his sword in a brusque motion. The blade cut the air as if severing an invisible thread. He shoved it into the hands of the first guard to hurry forward, tore the gloves from his hands, and flung them to a page without so much as glancing at the boy. He spun on his heel.
“Heal the squire,” he said, without looking back.
***
Sansa
Dinner in the Great Hall felt more like a slow execution. The long tables were laden with hard bread, undercooked meat, and bowls of thin broth, but to Sansa everything tasted of ash. Since the fires Tyrion had set around King’s Landing to slow Stannis’ approach, the Red Keep had been steeped in smoke. The stench clung to nostrils, to hair, to clothes, to curtains. Even the wine seemed bitter, as if pressed from vineyards long burned.
The hall buzzed with tense voices. Lords whispered of ships, supplies, the numbers of Stannis’ fleet. Knights argued over walls and catapults. Servants scurried back and forth, wide-eyed, as though every tray they carried were a torch about to fall. Fear was everywhere, but so too a kind of sickly excitement, as if the battle to come were itself a feast.
Sansa cut a piece of meat without tasting it, moving her lips in silent prayers to the old and the new gods. But there was no comfort. The sharpest memory in her mind was Joffrey clutching her hand in the sept, smiling for the faithful while whispering venom in her ear. Since then she had not left her chambers. She wept more than she slept, and when she slept, she dreamed of green eyes burning with wrath.
That night, however, something was different. When she returned to her room, she found beneath her pillow a small, clumsily folded note, written in the shaky hand she knew well: Godswood. I must speak with you. Ser Dontos.
Sansa’s heart stumbled in her chest. She hesitated long, pacing her room like a bird in a cage. She knew the risk. If she were caught, the king would have one more reason to accuse her. But after all, she had so little left. If Joffrey wants me dead, she thought, perhaps it is better to hasten the end. If they catch me, I will only arrive sooner at the fate he has chosen for me.
She dressed plainly, covered her head with a simple veil, and slipped out. The corridors were full of shadows stretched by torchlight, and each of her steps seemed too loud. Guards talked in corners but paid her no mind. The castle was in chaos that night. The doors leading to the godswood creaked as they opened, as if protesting the escape of a prisoner.
The grove was dark, save for the distant torches high on the walls. The trees whispered to one another in the wind, and the weirwood’s carved face seemed to watch her with eyes that wept sap. There, beneath the heavy leaves, Ser Dontos appeared, staggering, his cloak askew, the smell of wine betraying his arrival.
“My lady…” He bowed clumsily, nearly toppling in the effort. Then he looked at her more closely. “You’ve been crying?”
Sansa lifted her chin, seeking firmness. “It’s only the smoke from the fires. It stings my eyes.”
Dontos chuckled softly, without mirth. “The smoke stings us all, but on your face it weighs thrice as much.” He stepped closer, lowered his voice. “The whole castle hums with rumors. They say your betrothal to the king is broken. Whispers in every hall, from kitchens to the queen’s chambers.”
Sansa’s stomach knotted. It was strange to hear aloud what she already knew but which had yet to be declared before the court. A bitter relief, like a blow that no longer surprises. She fixed her eyes on the ground for a moment, then looked back to Dontos. “It’s true. Then take me from here, as you promised.”
The knight sighed and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I’m trying, my lady, I’m trying. The escape is close, I swear it. But you must be careful. The king is… how shall I put it? Blood in his eyes whenever your name is spoken.”
She lowered her head, her trembling hands interlacing. It was like hearing a headsman’s sentence before he’d chosen the rope. “There’s no remedy for this. He will always hate me. So let’s flee at once, before it’s too late.”
Dontos scratched his chin, ill at ease. “These things take time. Men must be bribed, guards deceived, gates unbarred. But keep hope. Soon—very soon—you’ll leave this cursed place. But you must be cautious; I only asked for this meeting tonight because I knew everyone in the castle would be too busy.”
Sansa drew a long breath, closing her eyes for a moment. The wind stirred the branches of the grove, and she almost managed to imagine herself in Winterfell, beneath the boughs of the old godswood where her father knelt to pray. There, the voices were of home; here, they were threats.
“I hope you’re not lying to me, ser,” she said, low but steady. “For I have no one else to turn to.”
Dontos seemed to shrink beneath the words. He made another clumsy bow. “I would never lie to you, my lady. Be certain of this: freedom is closer than you think.”
Silence fell between them, heavy as the shadows. The trees leaned in, and the carved face of the heart tree seemed to weep more. Sansa clutched her veil to her breast and murmured, almost to herself: “Then may the gods give me strength. For I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
Dontos did not answer. He was too drunk to grasp the weight of her words, or too craven to face them. He bobbed another awkward bow and disappeared among the trees, leaving her alone with her fears.
Dontos had scarcely vanished into the grove’s shadows when the whisper of leaves returned Sansa to silence — a silence that was never truly silent. High branches rubbed together like mourning clothes, and the heart tree’s carved face looked wetter in the thin light of far-off torches. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and breathed the smell of sap and cold earth. She was about to turn back toward the castle when a tentative footstep sounded behind her, too light for a guard, too near to be wind.
“Who’s there?” The words came out shaky, and she hated herself for it.
A silhouette peeled itself from the shadow of an elm. “It’s me, my lady.”
“Arthur…” The name ran across her skin like cold water. Sansa’s heart leapt, and for an instant everything returned — Joffrey’s fingers biting her at the Sept, the venom whispered at her ear, the smile for the crowd. She stepped back, tugging the veil around her face. “Go away. Now. We cannot be seen together again.”
He raised both hands, open, the way one soothes a skittish horse. The glint of a distant torch sketched his features: young, exhausted, with the pallor of a man who has not slept. “I need to speak with you. Just a moment. Please.”
“Moments are over.” Her whisper sounded hard even to her own ears. “Every moment with you costs me my life.”
Arthur hesitated, as if the sense of her words arrived late, then jerked his chin toward the deeper shadows beyond the heart tree’s face. “There. Farther in. No one will come. I promise.”
Sansa looked around: the walls were dark stripes against the sky, and the wind brought the river’s smell mixed with the city’s — a breath of smoke and old fish. No guard’s footfalls, no clink of iron. She hung between running and listening. Listening was more dangerous — but so was running. She nodded once and followed him along a trail of thick roots that rose from the earth like fingers.
When the grove swallowed them, Arthur stopped. They stood beneath an arch of twisted branches where the light did not fully reach; patches of brightness quivered on the ground like scales. He drew a deep breath, as if bracing for a plunge, and spoke quickly, before his courage failed.
“I came near you at the Hand’s command. The Imp’s.” The words fell between them with the weight of a stone. “He put me in your path. I… I was to keep you from the king. Draw you from his eyes, distract you when needed.”
Sansa did not move. There was no surprise — not the sort she had imagined as a child, in songs where betrayals arrive with trumpets. What came was an alignment: rough pieces meeting like teeth. The last days — stable-yard messages, careful coincidences, his presence always half a step away — all took on a new, colder shape. “So that was it.” Her tongue was dry. “Tyrion.”
Arthur nodded, wavering, as if asking pardon were already part of the gesture. “He promised me freedom. Said that… that my land, my home…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t know the king… that Joffrey would see. It wasn’t meant to be like this. When I comforted you in the godswood, that wasn’t planned…”
“Not meant to be like this?” Sansa let out a short, joyless laugh that the grove itself seemed to swallow. “And what was it meant to be, Arthur? I was to smile at you in the yard to soothe my betrothed’s jealousy? Weep before you under the gods’ face so the Imp could enjoy his little game? Thank you while you slipped a noose around my neck?” She stepped toward him, eyes burning. “You used me.”
“I…” He reached out and drew back, like a man afraid of being bitten. “I obeyed. That’s it. I obeyed because I had no choice. He holds the keys. And I thought… I thought keeping the king away from you was also… good for you.”
The words ricocheted in Sansa’s chest. Good for you. How many times had she heard that from men pushing her toward the abyss? “An embrace is good for me?” she shot back. “That embrace the king saw? Was that rehearsed too?” Her throat tightened at the memory of the shameful heat of her tears, the gambeson’s fabric against her cheek, the moment of truce that had felt so dear.
Arthur closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “No. Not that one. I saw you crying. That’s all. I saw and… and I didn’t think. I didn’t think of anything. I just went.” He opened his eyes again, urgent. “It wasn’t part of the plan. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”
Old and new gods. Sansa looked over her shoulder at the heart tree. The sap seemed thicker that night, like a tree’s blood. “Oaths are easy in here,” she said bitterly. “Even the heart’s face has heard more lies than prayers.”
“I know.” He shook his head, helpless. “I know. But it’s the truth.” Silence wedged itself between them again, and he shattered it in a single breath: “I’m afraid the Imp won’t keep his promise. Not before the king decides to kill me over some petty cause. He thinks he can hold me, that he has invisible chains for his nephew, but I… I saw Joffrey’s eyes today. I saw them in the yard, when he trained. He wants… he wants to open me like a pig, my lady. If I stay, I die. If I run, I look guilty. If I speak, no one believes me.”
“And why should I believe you?” The question came lower, but no softer. “You followed me on another man’s orders. You fed me half-truths. Now you’d place your fear in my hands and call it repentance?”
“Because… because today the queen sent for me.” The admission came fast, like a bandage ripped from a wound. “Cersei. A message. She said she wished to speak to me in private. She didn’t say why, but… I felt it. She knows. Or thinks she does. She scents blood better than the kennel hounds. If I go, she’ll ask about you, about the grove, about… everything. And if I look like I’m hiding something, I’ll be meat for lions.”
The queen’s name brought a chill no cloak could hold. Sansa saw, in a flash, Cersei’s green eyes — forever weighing, measuring, cutting. “And why have you come here? To warn me? To have me tell you to flee?”
“I came because… because I want a chance to make amends.” Arthur drew a steadying breath, his chest rising and falling with effort. “I did wrong. I’m not proud. But if there is anything I can do to undo it… to repay it… tell me, and I’ll do it. I can say something to the queen that will shield you. I can look away when the guards should be watching. I can—”
“Can you unmake the embrace?” she cut in, and her own cruelty felt useful, for once. “Can you wipe the king’s memory clean? Can you tell my father I wasn’t a fool? Can you?” Her voice caught on the last word, and she hated herself again for it.
Arthur lowered his head, as if taking the blow without raising a guard. “No. I can’t.”
The godswood sighed around her, leaves saying things no one could understand. Sansa placed a hand on her lower belly when a dull pang rippled through her, a brief sting, burning and fading, like lightning behind her ribs. She frowned and lifted her eyes again. An omen. The word came whole, and with it the strange sensation that something within her — beyond her — was shifting.
“Then go,” she said, her voice a thread that grew steadier as it left her lips. “Go before someone sees us. I’ll think about it.” She savored the phrase like tasting bitter medicine. “I promise nothing. Only that I’ll think.”
He lifted his face, hopeful and distraught at once. “Thank—”
“Don’t thank me.” Sansa raised her palm, feeling strength return to her fingers. “Don’t thank me for what I’ve not yet given.”
Arthur bit his lip, stifled the urge to draw near, and stepped back. For an instant he looked like a lost child. Then he made a short, awkward bow and turned toward the shadows from which he’d come. He vanished soundlessly, swallowed by a corridor of trees that closed behind him like curtains.
Sansa remained. The wind tugged at her veil, and she pinned it beneath her chin. The pang in her belly had passed, but it left an echo — not pain, exactly, but warning.
She retraced her steps, careful not to snag on the roots. Outside, the city’s murmur was a beast lying at the gate: hammers, voices, a distant bell, someone singing off-key. Inside the castle, the torchlight felt excessive, and the guards too loud. She climbed the stairs without meeting anyone’s eyes, crossed corridors that smelled of wax and leather, and only breathed fully once she’d bolted her chamber door behind her.
She sat on the edge of her bed. The room seemed smaller, the tapestries closer, as if they wished to wrap her in an embrace she did not want. She folded her hands in her lap and let the thoughts come, one by one, like stones dropped into her palm.
Denounce Tyrion. The idea entered and sat there, like a knife on a table. A single word to the right ear would suffice; a whisper of the Hand’s name into Joffrey’s ear, and the king would see another traitor on the board. For an instant she tasted vengeance: the shock in the halfman’s eyes, the fall of one who had manipulated her as much as all the rest.
But the taste soured quickly. The Imp is an enemy who breathes underwater, she thought. Even wounded, he bites. And I have no scales. To denounce Tyrion would be to trade one headsman for another, perhaps worse. The king was predictable in his cruelty; the king’s uncle was a dark pit.
I need another culprit, she decided, and felt a strange calm spread in her chest. Another name to cast at Joffrey’s feet, another face to place between him and her.
In her sleep that night, she was carried once more into the riot. Streets filled with faces twisted by hunger and rage; the air thick with screams, stones flying, hands tearing her clothes. Joffrey, as always, at the center of the tumult. But this time he did not reach for her. He did not call guards, did not protect her. He turned his face and laughed, and then he was gone.
The crowd swallowed her. Rough hands on her arms, her thighs, her dress. Drunken laughter, foul breath, whispered promises of violence. She felt herself dragged, thrown down, her body invaded and broken. When she tried to scream, no voice came. The face of the heart tree was there, watching in silence, its sap-tears running faster.
Pain and shame consumed her until the final blow came: death, filthy, anonymous, trampled underfoot like dust.
Sansa woke in sobs, her body soaked in cold sweat. The room was still drowned in shadows, and the moonlight filtering through the shutters made the tapestries seem more alive than ever. She felt dampness between her legs. For a moment she thought she was still trapped in the nightmare — blood, violence. But when she pulled back the sheets, her heart clenched differently: it was not another’s violence. It was her own body.
Blood stained the white cloth. Small red flowers on the linen, the ancient testimony of all women.
She sat, trembling fingers clutching the sheets, chest heaving as if she had run. She breathed deeply. Part of her longed to cry, to call for her mother, to wish herself back in Winterfell where this moment would have been celebrated with smiling maidens and embroidered gifts. But she was not in Winterfell. She was in King’s Landing. And here, even flowering was a weapon.
No longer a girl, she thought. Now I can bear heirs.
Fear came first. Heirs for whom? For Joffrey? For another man chosen at the whim of the court? But soon after, a different spark burned in her chest: power. Yes, a risk, but also a key.
She lay back down, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. And if Joffrey believes he’s lost me? Will he endure to see me wed to another? Will he endure to see another man take what he swore was his? The thought was bitter and sweet at once. She would pay to see it. If she had to be betrothed to whomever they ordered, she would wear the mask docilely. She would accept the match, smile at the feasts, and cast glances at Joffrey. Let jealousy eat him like a slow poison.
The decision ripened in silence, like the drops of blood still staining the sheets: her flowering would be her weapon.
The maids entered soon after, summoned by the rumor that had spread from room to room. They found her pale but upright, seated on the bed’s edge like a miniature queen. They bustled about, bringing clean cloths, basins of warm water, light perfumes to mask the smell. They cleansed her, dressed her in a fresh light gown, and with bows escorted her to the queen’s chambers.
Cersei received her amidst heavy perfumes, wine spilled in goblets, and the coldness that was her nature. She sat in a high chair, a dark green mantle over her shoulders, and her jade eyes glittered like sharpened stones.
“So you’ve flowered,” she said, without softness. “At last you are ready to be a woman.”
Sansa lowered her eyes as she had learned to do, but felt rage boil in the pit of her stomach.
Cersei went on: “Perhaps you will not love your husband, Sansa. But you will love your children. As all of us do. It is the only consolation the gods allow.”
The words were knives, but dull knives. Sansa bit her lip and replied in almost a whisper: “I loved Joffrey.”
The queen’s laugh was low, dry, unbelieving. “You don’t fool me, girl. I am glad my son opened his eyes to you. The sooner you learn that love is not for women like us, the easier your path will be.”
Sansa lifted her eyes, and the heat she felt was not shame — it was fury. Arthur had told her, there in the godswood, that Cersei had summoned him privately. That she sniffed about. That she hunted. And now here she was, mocking her, spitting truths like scraps tossed to dogs.
The queen looked at her as if she were a piece already discarded from the game. “Did you think you would snare Joff? That my son would content himself with a pretty face and damp eyes? No, little one. Not with me watching him.”
Cersei leaned back, satisfied with the humiliation she believed she had dealt. Sansa, however, did not bend. She kept her gaze steady, and in her mind the resolution hardened. She was no longer a girl. She was a woman. And women learned to choose their enemies as carefully as they chose their jewels. Sansa fixed her eyes on the queen.
If Joffrey wants a culprit, she resolved in silence, and it is unwise to accuse Tyrion, perhaps I shall find another to throw at his feet.
Notes:
See you next week!
Chapter 15: Garden of Lies
Summary:
“When I was born a slender angel,
one of those who blow trumpets, announced:
you shall bear a banner.
A burden far too heavy for a woman,
this still-ashamed species.
I accept the subterfuges that are mine,
without needing to lie.”
Notes:
Hi everyone! How’s your week going?
Here I am with a new chapter, a little shorter than the last one, but look... I really liked it, though I’ll let you be the judges...
I’ll be replying to the comments on the previous chapter soon, okay guys? I’ve already read through them.
By the way, this chapter is dedicated to StarkBoy, who had a birthday last week and asked me for a present :D
Thank you to everyone who’s been leaving kudos and comments, it really means a lot to me!
Enjoy the read.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion
The map room smelled of hot wax, old leather, and the mineral trace of the wind off the river. Candles wept thin threads of light over the central board where the city sprawled in miniature: walls sketched in charcoal, towers of varnished wood, and the bay pinned with tacks as if someone had nailed the sea to the table. The air quivered faintly near the shortest wick, a tremor that made the shadows swell and shrink with each breath.
The doors burst open in an impatient blow. Joffrey crossed the threshold with his cloak dragging like a tongue of silk, and the crown threw golden glints across the varnish of the map. Two Gold Cloaks halted behind him, rigid, the shine on their helms sufficient to pretend at discipline.
“Have you written to Littlefinger?” Joffrey asked, without preamble. The word “Hand” did not trouble his tongue.
Tyrion turned the ring on his thumb before lifting his eyes. “Yes. The raven flew.”
He added nothing more. The small smile stayed inside, where no one could see. The letter had been a recent courtesy; the authorization had flown well before it, sealed in hot wax and calculated risk. A dangerous move, but necessary, like stretching a rope over a chasm when no bridge was in sight. Let Littlefinger offer the king’s hand to the Tyrells without waiting on the boy’s whim—that saves time and, with luck, ships.
“I want the proposal to be clear,” Joffrey insisted. “I want him to say he can offer my hand to Margaery.”
“It’s clear,” Tyrion replied. “Littlefinger understands the value of a promise you can touch.”
Joffrey ran his fingers along the edge of the map and sent a miniature galley quivering.
“They say she’s beautiful.”
“They say they have full granaries, full shelters, and full purses,” Tyrion said, nudging a pin that marked the cove. “That the realm can see. Beauty is invented in songs; bread and ships are not.”
“I want them to be mine,” the king said, and his green eyes shone with possession more than peace.
“That’s what letters are for,” Tyrion returned. The ring went on turning; a habit that sometimes served as a rein for thoughts that tried to bite the hand. If the Tyrells come, half the hunger goes quiet and southern iron speaks for us. If they don’t, the water will burn anyway.
Joffrey leaned in as if he could crush Stannis with the weight of his own torso. “And the battle?”
“The impatient lady everyone courts,” Tyrion said, neutral. “What would you like to hear, Your Grace?”
“I’ll be in it.” Joffrey’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. “I won’t stand behind curtains or on a balcony watching men bleed for me. Not while tales of the Young Wolf’s prowess run through the realm. I won’t be called a coward.”
Tyrion measured his nephew as if checking the welds on a helm. Joffrey could be a coward when he chose weak victims—the rumor of the strangled woman still ran through the corridors like spilled wine—but when it came to action, the boy had an appetite of his own. He likes blood. There was in it a foolish courage the wind adored.
“You will,” Tyrion said at last. “In a way that leaves the king alive at the end of it.”
Joffrey slapped the table’s rim. A tower toppled, rolled two finger-breadths, and stopped, tapping the drawn Dragonpit. “Don’t treat me like glass. If Robb Stark can set campfire songs alight with his deeds, so can I.”
“No one sings of a brave king dead at the foot of his own wall,” Tyrion replied. “They only carve epitaphs—and they rhyme poorly.”
“Spare me your wordplay,” Joffrey said. “I want to fight. I want to feel sand under my boots, steel humming in my arm. I want to hear the screams when the fire reaches them.”
“Short orders also kill enemies,” Tyrion said back. “Sometimes faster than a sword in the wrong hands. Your presence aloft is worth a company, if we speak at the right moment.”
“I don’t want to seem,” the king said, a tone lower, almost intimate. “I want to be.”
“Then be alive,” Tyrion cut in. “You’ll be on the parapets of the King’s Gate or above the Mud Gate. You’ll have reinforced guard. Sandor Clegane, Meryn Trant, and as many shields as needed to resemble a wall. You’ll command the sectors I indicate. Clear signals, no spendthrift heroics. Your station will multiply our strength.”
“My mother won’t like it,” Joffrey said, as if tossing a bone to dogs to watch the fight.
“She won’t,” Tyrion admitted. “Cersei appreciates nothing that doesn’t bloom from her own caprice. And her caprice has a walled garden and a single rosebush.”
“My mother decides nothing,” Joffrey answered, flat. “I decide. She minds dresses and salons. The battle is mine.”
Tyrion did not smile. “Very well. Let it be yours. But let it be our victory.”
He touched lightly the pin that marked the head of the enemy fleet. Under his nail the metal felt cold as an omen. The green fire sleeps in the alchemists’ jars and dreams of opening rivers. In dreams, everything goes right; outside them, chains break, lines foul, and flames bite their owner.
“And the fire?” Joffrey asked. “Is it ready?”
“As ready as alchemists swear all things are when they want to see the world burn,” Tyrion said, weighing risk like a man measuring a rope bridge. He had decided to tell Joffrey of his stratagem to show confidence in the boy. “What I can promise is that we won’t burn ourselves. Between their faith and my prudence, there’s a wire to walk.”
“I want to see,” the king insisted.
“You’ll see smoke and lights,” Tyrion said. “As for the trick, it works best when no one watches.”
Joffrey studied him, sniffing for secrets. “You’re smiling inside.”
“I have a rich inner life,” Tyrion said, dry. “Sometimes it pays the bills of the other one.”
Joffrey circled the table. He halted before the drawing of the river’s mouth, where the pins thickened like thorns. “I want chosen men with me. I want to be seen. I want them to stop talking of Robb and speak of me.”
“They’ll see,” Tyrion said. “They’ll hear. And they’ll exaggerate, as befits a city that survives by telling its own story the next day.”
With his forefinger he drew a silent line across the map, from the estuary to the King’s Gate, as if there were a chain there beyond the reach of eyes. There were invisible chains all over the Red Keep: they tied squires to sovereigns, promised brides to gardens, held kings at the brink of the abyss. Pull them in the right order—that’s the only science I care for.
Joffrey nodded with the short head of one who does not accept counsel but has already swallowed it. “I want trumpet calls. I want banners. I want to be seen above the city.”
“You’ll have trumpets and banners,” Tyrion said. “You’ll also have shields over your nape. Arrows don’t ask titles before they pierce necks.”
The king spun on his heels and shoved the doors with needless force. His cloak swept two carved cottages, which toppled like tents after a gale. The footsteps died in the corridor, but the door’s vibration lingered a breath, clinging to the air like a sob.
Tyrion put the miniatures back in place with the patience of a man setting pieces before a decisive play. The letter had already flown where Littlefinger would turn sighs into business. If the Tyrells come, there’ll be bread and fresh steel; if they tarry, the sea will learn a new color.
He stood still, listening to his own head count. Sansa, he thought: porcelain learning not to break. Arthur, a shadow trained to stand where the king could tread without noticing. Cersei, perfume and razor. And Joffrey, thirst. It was a board of hunger. Everything in the castle was starved: soldiers of rations, the city of bread, the queen of control, the king of other people’s fear. Only the bay seemed plentiful—plentiful with fuel.
“Invisible chains,” he murmured, and the nearest candle answered with a dry crack.
He uncorked a skin, not to drink but to feel the wine turn, heavy, like a sea drawing back before the wave. If I die, they’ll blame the dwarf and forget my name in the same paragraph where they praise the king’s courage. If I live, there’ll be another morning to teach the city to believe in miracles that were yesterday’s tricks.
He stoppered the wine. Went to the narrow window. The wind brought splinters of voices, hammers beating boards, the low hum of tautened ropes, like an instrument that had not yet found music. Below, along the crooked lattice of rooftops, a cat crossed an eave, sure the night was his. Men were not so sure. Men needed pacts, letters, chains, fire.
Tyrion returned to the board and, with his nail, nudged a bright pin by a hair. “Here,” he said to himself, as if marking a secret. Then he wiped away with his thumb the chalk trace along the riverbank.
“You’ll be in the battle, yes,” he repeated under his breath, as if sealing a contract with himself. “But alive. Always alive.”
The candle flames leaned the same way, obeying the draft that crossed the hall. Outside, the city drew a deep breath. Inside, the dwarf breathed back. And the pieces, all of them, held still for one perfect instant, as if war were politely waiting to begin.
~.~
The corridor to the queen’s apartments smelled of crushed roses and smoke. Gold-cloaked guards crossed their spears when they saw him approach, but the Hand’s seal glinting on his cloak was enough to open the way. The lion carved on the door looked fiercer in the trembling torchlight, as if even the wood were growling.
Within, the air was different. Cersei had prepared the scene like a stage: green and gold tapestries, a brazier breathing sweet vapors, and a small table set for two, covered in white linen and flower arrangements already beginning to wilt. The wine was poured, and the queen waited seated in a high chair, the posture of a statue that had never known doubt.
“I see you’ve arranged a banquet for reconciliation,” Tyrion said, dragging a chair for himself without asking leave. “Or is it for conspiracy? In King’s Landing, tables usually serve both.”
“Do not trifle with me today, Tyrion.” Her voice was tense, if controlled. “We have matters from the North to discuss.”
He arched a brow. “Lady Stark’s little wolves?”
Cersei gripped her cup harder than needed. “I still can’t believe Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell and executed them. Two boys, burned before the gates.”
Tyrion filled his own cup. The wine smelled strongly of overripe plums. “A bold play for a turncloak barely out of swaddling. And dangerous. Catelyn Stark may well blame the prisoner we keep so jealously.”
Cersei’s green eyes narrowed, reflecting the brazier’s glow. “We had nothing to do with it. Jaime had nothing to do with it.”
“Ah, but Catelyn does not know that.” Tyrion took a slow sip. “And grieving mothers prefer easy culprits to the true ones.”
She set her cup down with a hard ring. The metallic sound reverberated through the room. “I still have Sansa. And with Joffrey no longer prancing like a lapdog for her. It suffices.”
“No, dear sister. We both have her.” Tyrion set down his cup, turning his ring. “And we had best treat her well. A coin holds value only while it’s not dented. The same goes for maidens held hostage.”
Cersei snorted, but did not answer at once. Servants filed in with smoking silver trays. They set out grilled eels with herbs, pigeons stuffed with chestnuts, and warm loaves still steaming. The smell was rich, almost offensive to a city creaking with hunger. The servants bowed and vanished like shadows.
The queen helped herself first, serving a pigeon with delicate movements. “Littlefinger. Do you truly trust him?”
Tyrion cut a slice of eel, letting the knife scrape the plate on purpose. “Trust is a dear word. Let us say I find him predictable. Stannis would never buy the loyalty of a man who values his own skin so dearly. Littlefinger backs horses with odds of victory, not lost causes.”
“And you believe the Tyrells are a guarantee of victory?” Cersei looked up, suspicious. “That climbing rose has thorns that hide.”
“Thorns or no, they bring bread, ships, and gold. Things even kings require.” Tyrion shrugged. “If Stannis wins, the throne goes to ashes. I prefer thorns to fire.”
She drank a quick mouthful, as if rinsing her mouth. “Lady Tanda has been begging to return to her castle. She even tried to bribe me with promises of jewels.”
“Permit it. But keep loyal guards. A desperate lady can be more dangerous than one with an army.”
“You always have easy counsel,” Cersei said, edged. “And it was you who dismissed those filthy wildlings. They might serve us now.”
“Wildlings are useful in the woods,” Tyrion answered, patient. “They strike fast, vanish faster. In a set battle they turn to meat for catapults. And we’ve no meat to spare.”
She stabbed her pigeon with the knife. “And the conspiracies? I’ve lost count of how many betrayals bud every week. How do you keep your head up in so much poison?”
“Holding one’s head up is easy,” Tyrion said, and lifted his in a theatrical tilt. “Not losing it is the trick. As for poison, I trust Varys. He breathes intrigue as we breathe air.”
“You trust him too much.” Her tone sliced. “The eunuch manipulates everyone. Including you. Especially you.”
“Everyone manipulates me,” Tyrion retorted, pouring more wine. “No matter—so long as I see where the strings lead. And sometimes I pull a few back.”
Cersei laid down her cutlery, her gaze sparking. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re trying to pull Sandor away from Joffrey.”
Tyrion smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. “Not pull away. Redirect. The Hound and Ser Balon Swann will be useful in quick strikes against Stannis. Meanwhile, Joffrey will be guarded by other men. To keep the teenage king in the rear is like hiding a candle in the dark. He must appear.”
“You want to expose him to danger.” Her voice leapt an octave.
“I want to expose him to glory, not to arrows. There’s a difference.” Tyrion carved off another bite. “Men fight better when they believe their king watches. If they think he hides, they’ll fight only for themselves.”
Cersei stared at him a long while, until the brazier’s flame reflected in her pupils, turning them almost golden. “And if we lose the city? Have you thought on that, brother? What happens to me, to my children?”
“I have,” Tyrion said, wiping his hands unhurriedly. “And I assure you: we won’t. Or, if we do, we’ll hold until our father arrives. Tywin does not dawdle when the family’s fate is at stake.”
She loosed a rough sigh, as if unbelieving. “Words. Always words.”
“Words and wine keep me alive.” He raised the cup in a solitary toast. “But if it soothes your night, I’ll make a gesture. Lord Gyles will be released.”
“And Tommen?” The name slipped out almost like a plea disguised as a question.
Tyrion set the cup down softly. “Tommen remains safe. Out of your reach, but safe. I prefer a living heir to one tossed to the streets by someone’s caprice.”
Cersei clenched her hands in her lap until the knuckles whitened. Silence thickened between them, broken only by the brazier’s crackle. The queen looked a blade about to snap—or cut. Tyrion leaned back and tasted the wine as if it were any other evening.
The chalice in Cersei’s hand trembled only a little when Tyrion told her Joffrey wanted the front line. She let the wine fall back into the cup like someone avoiding spitting venom on her own table.
“You encourage him?” she asked, eyes narrowed, voice barely hiding hostility.
“Yes.” Tyrion chose each syllable as if honing a blade. “He’ll show himself. That will hearten the troops. Safely—out of no cowardice of mine, but out of his prudence.”
Cersei looked at him as one looks at a goat on an altar. “You always think you know best. But I have news for you, Tyrion. I’ve taken your… mistress.” The word came low, sharp as a hidden razor.
Something iced Tyrion’s gut in that instant, a keen old sensation—not fear of blows, but the discovery that scratches on clothes might soon scratch flesh. He did not let panic show. Instead he donned his most useful mask: meek confirmation.
“Indeed?” he said, letting surprise fill his voice. “What a pity. I hope she’s being treated with… consideration.”
Cersei smiled. “She won’t be if anything happens to my children. Varys told me much about you. Don’t you find it convenient that someone so… intimate with you is under my roof? Perhaps the eunuch was kind enough to bring me the truth.”
Tyrion chewed the irony, tasting it bitter. Varys. Always Varys—that herald of secrets with a sphinx’s face. If the eunuch had already informed Cersei, then the game had moved farther than he supposed. Yet the piece in the queen’s hand—a gagged girl, rough-handled and bruised—could still be used to his advantage, if he played it right.
“Bring her,” Cersei ordered.
Doors banged, steps echoed. Two Kettleblack brothers came in, dragging between them a thin figure, eyes swollen shut, dress torn, mouth gagged. Dried blood stained her chin; a scratch ran from hairline to cheek. The prisoner stumbled, hauled by her wrists, then crumpled at the queen’s feet like an abandoned crate.
Tyrion saw the body and saw the intent—and saw, with a cold he could not name, that the prisoner was not Shae. It was Alayaya, Chataya’s girl, the face he’d pretended to visit when he went to Shae, a woman who played smaller parts whenever he needed to invent companions and stories to avoid sharper questions. Even so, before the court, before the smiling queen, Tyrion did not deny it. Why? Because denial might admit the truth with a clarity that delivered her into worse hands; because for once pretending might make the scene manageable.
“She is mine,” Tyrion said, voice low, compliant. Each word was calculated: to admit without betraying; to protect without seeming meek. “My… friend. I brought her with me. Do you not see? She is here. Do what you will.”
Cersei’s eyes widened a heartbeat, surprised by the confirmation. The pleasure rising in her face was an animal finding its master. “So now I know where to press,” she purred. “Lay a finger on her, and I’ll see your little boy feel it twice over. I know how to punish.”
Tyrion let the cup fall into his hand and felt the metal graze his palm, a reminder of weight he could still wield. He stepped near Alayaya in a way no one would read as a plan, near with the language of those who need to buy time.
“If you think you can break me through the woman within your reach, you’re mistaken,” he said, low, sarcasm bare. Then he lifted his head and spoke louder, for Cersei to hear: “She is mine, therefore she has protection. Touch her, and Tommen will feel it double.” The threat bit because it touched what Cersei guarded most.
“You dare…?” Cersei’s smile bared teeth.
“I dare,” Tyrion replied—and when the queen lunged, short and feral, he answered with pure reflex: he twisted her arm. It wasn’t leather on leather; it was the small muscle seizing—and Cersei let out a sound half surprise, half rage—and slumped, shamed, slipping in her own chair. To any other eye, the tableau would have been humiliating: a queen subdued by a dwarf’s hand. Tyrion felt the strength of it echo through him as a necessary violence.
“Do not test me,” he said toward his sister, voice so low it seemed a whisper and yet it traversed the chamber. “If you touch the woman—if you lay on her anything that makes her suffer—I will unmake your world.”
The Kettleblacks froze, eyes wide as platters. Cersei gathered herself by degrees, her face flushed with fury and humiliation. She fell back like a beaten host, haughtiness ground to grit by a twisted arm. Tyrion knew humiliation was a slower victory than blood—but a deeper one.
He moved to Alayaya and said softly, “You’re safe. Don’t cry out. I don’t say this house is a haven forever—I say, for now, it won’t strike you.”
Alayaya looked up at him as at a marvel. Her hands shook. Tyrion drew a cloth from his pocket and dabbed the blood from the corner of her mouth—rough, almost pious. “I’ll get you out,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, for promises are baskets that so often leak.
Before he left, he stood before Cersei, eyes burning cold. “I promise you this: your joy will turn to ashes.” The words came without hysteria, only certainty. He left the hall with the surety that he’d wounded his sister in a way the damage would be recorded in silence.
Up in the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion’s legs barely held him. The wind off the river felt heavier; the walls seemed to whisper accounts. He climbed to his chamber like a man carrying prayers and entered without announcing himself. Shae was there: naked save for a collar of golden hands—his gift—lying on the sheets as if war were a rumor that could not touch her. Her body had the heedless ease of youth that does not know the chessboard it lies upon; her eyes, when they lifted, shone with simple, girlish pleasure.
“I came from below, through a tunnel,” she said before he could sit, her voice warm and quick. “Varys guided me. I passed an iron gate and a corridor of red and black mosaics—there was a dragon on the floor. It was easy. He said I’d surprise you.”
Tyrion shut his eyes a heartbeat and, like a man looking for logic in labyrinths, ran his hands over the room searching for any sign of the entry: loose stones, seams, hidden steps. He tested wall and floor and baseboard. Nothing. The room was a box without apparent secret doors. Frustration rose in him like brine.
Shae came close, her hands sliding over his chest, eager to tug him back toward distraction, but Tyrion’s thoughts were heavy: Alayaya, Cersei, Varys, and the danger cinching tight around Shae. He tried to answer her caresses; tried to feel the old heat; tried to find an antidote in it. He could not. Her hands moved with urgency, slipped between his legs, whispered words of fire—his body replied with indifference. Guilt—using other faces as shields, putting a girl in danger—clogged every desire.
“Sleep,” he said at last, in a tone that mixed order and plea. He stroked her hair with a tenderness he didn’t know he deserved. Shae pouted, kept her words light, still tried to chase a laugh from him, but Tyrion held her hand and sat by the bed as she, defeated, let him cover her. He snuffed the candle—not to avoid the light, but because darkness better suited the thoughts that were now stealing him.
He stayed awake all night, feeling like an arsonist who, after laying the fire, hides to wait for the wind. He thought of the invisible chains he’d woven; of how a gesture of contempt could turn to carnage; of Tommen, of Myrcella, of Shae, of Alayaya. And while the city breathed outside, Tyrion remained still, aware that war had already begun in his own chambers.
***
Sansa
Sansa drummed her fingers against the polished wood of the table, before a breakfast gone cold. The bread was hard, the fruit wilted, the honey darkened—nothing had any taste. The air of the solar stayed heavy with smoke, a constant breath rising from the bonfires Tyrion had lit on the hills and along the riverbanks. From morning to night, everything smelled of burnt firewood, melted fat, and singed meat. The smoke slipped through the window veils, clung to the curtains, soaked into her hair. When she slept, she dreamed of ashes falling onto her tongue.
The closer the battle crept, the stronger the stench seemed to grow—and the more nervous she became. She had not seen Joffrey in days. His absence, far from bringing relief, planted in her chest a dull fear: if the king did not seek her out, what was he plotting? Joffrey’s silence was like the hush before the rope snaps beneath a hanged man’s feet.
Arthur had stopped appearing as well, not as before. Ser Arys Oakheart had orders to escort her on all visits to the godswood. The Kingsguard knight was gentle but firm, and his constant presence made any prolonged meeting impossible. Sansa had been lucky the last night she met Dontos and Arthur: the castle was in an uproar, guards running to and fro. Confusion offered shadows in which to hide. But luck was not a thing one could trust twice.
Even so, she found a way.
One morning, when she was permitted to ride in the yard, she took advantage of a moment when Ser Arys became distracted talking to another knight. Arthur was there among squires and horses, pretending to fuss with tack. When he stepped in to help her mount, Sansa let a small folded note fall into his hand. It was as quick as a sparrow’s flight: palm brushing palm, the note tucked under leather and fingers. Ser Arys returned almost at once, giving the scene a crooked look, but by the gods she had already passed the message.
The note read: “From now on I’ll go to the godswood only at night. Always hide behind the biggest tree. I’ll pass you notes that way.”
From then on, a routine settled in like a fragile secret. Every night, under Ser Arys’s watchful eye, Sansa went to the godswood. The knight accompanied her there, kept a respectful distance, and she, heart beating fast, slipped into the shadow of the leaves.
There, she would approach the weirwood as if to touch the heart tree—a pious gesture, piety half-feigned. But the instant the shadows covered her, Arthur appeared from behind the thick trunk, swift as a memory. They traded notes in silence: fingers brushing in haste, scraps of parchment passed like contraband. Sometimes the meeting was so brief that Ser Arys never even noticed her short incursion among the trees.
She wrote to Arthur in small, disguised strokes, each letter trembling with fear and hope. There was no other way, no one else she could trust. Dontos was a cowardly drunk; Tyrion, a well of hidden intentions; Cersei, a blade wrapped in silk; and Joffrey… Joffrey was the executioner. Arthur remained. And when one has only a single plank in a stormy sea, one trusts it even if it is cracked.
Arthur replied with notes as well—short words, always freighted with urgency. He wrote of guards murmuring her name, of Joffrey’s eyes burning like coals whenever her name was spoken, of counsels he did not dare repeat aloud.
That morning, Sansa still felt the roughness of the last note against her skin. She had written it in haste, folding it with trembling hands: “Allow the queen to approach. Let yourself be seen with her. Except when Joffrey is near. Always flee his eyes.”
It was a dangerous wager. She knew it. But it was necessary. If she could not control Joffrey, perhaps she could guide the eyes that circled him. Cersei sniffed out lies the way hounds sniff blood; sooner or later she would uncover Arthur’s involvement. Better that the queen see him in her own orbit, better that she believe she had him close, better that she measure him as a useful piece.
The finger-tapping against the table did not cease. Each beat was like the echo of her own heart.
A maid came to clear the untouched bread. “My lady, have you no appetite?”
Sansa raised her eyes and realized they must be red. “Not today.”
The maid hesitated, as if she wished to say something more, but only bowed and withdrew.
Sansa folded her hands in her lap and drew a deep breath. She felt torn between fear and the strange sensation that, for the first time in a long while, she was taking an active part on the board. She was not merely a prisoner dragged here and there by the caprices of lions. She was risking herself, yes—but she was deciding as well.
When she recalled the moment Arthur received her note, she saw something else in his eyes: not only obedience, but a spark of recognition.
And yet doubt gnawed. What if it was a mistake? What if Arthur turned against her, betrayed her trust, delivered the notes to the queen or to the Hand? There would be no mercy.
But if she did not trust him, whom could she trust?
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat and thought of Winterfell: breakfast with her brothers, the smell of fresh bread, familiar voices. There, drumming one’s fingers on the table meant childish impatience. Here, it meant adult fear.
Sansa opened her eyes again. The plate before her sat untouched, but her decision was already made. With each note, each step into the godswood, she would cling to the thin hope Arthur represented. And she would pray that the gods—old and new—did not abandon her when the storm broke.
Sansa beckoned the maid with a small, almost timid gesture, as if she feared even the air might betray her.
“Tell Ser Arys I wish to see the gardens,” she asked in a low voice.
The girl bowed and hurried off. Shortly thereafter Ser Arys Oakheart appeared at the door, white cloak resting on his shoulders, hand steady on the hilt of his sword. He always seemed too serious, as if every request of hers were a military task.
“My lady,” he greeted, with a small inclination of his head.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ser Arys. I need a bit of air.”
He did not argue. He merely dipped his head in assent, ready to escort her. Sansa took up the little book resting at the edge of the bed. From the outside, it looked like a modest notebook, simple cover, worn edges. Inside, it was a trap.
Holding it against her breast, she walked beside the knight to the gardens of the Red Keep. The way was filled with the smell of smoke and iron. Even there, among neglected rosebushes and stone fountains that no longer sang, the air was heavy. Birds rarely alighted; the sky was too gray, as if even the birds had abandoned the city.
Sansa found a stone bench beneath the twisted shade of an olive tree and sat. The cold of the stone crept up her thighs, but she did not move. She opened the small book and ran her fingers over the first pages.
It was no true diary. Since conceiving the idea, Sansa had spent entire nights awake, inventing memories, arranging them as one prepares a play. It was a disguised gift, a narrative not wholly her own, but one that might prove useful. Someday, perhaps, Joffrey would feel tempted to snatch it from her hands. And when he read it, he would find words chosen to prod his heart—or at least his vanity.
The first pages spoke of Winterfell. She wrote of the cutting cold, of snow creaking beneath boots, of the warmth of the great hall’s fire. She wrote of her sister, ever unruly, and of her brothers—Jon with his somber gaze, Bran always climbing, Rickon running like a wild pup. And of her bond with her hero, Robb. It had to be convincing.
There she also described the day she met Joffrey, when the king came to Winterfell. “He looked like a prince from tales,” she noted, “golden hair in the sun, a hero’s smile.” The words were almost too sweet, but that was the point. Joffrey would not believe a diary that did not place him at its center. And Sansa was not lying there—she truly had fallen in love with him.
Sansa moistened the tip of her quill and wrote on.
She wrote of King’s Landing, of how the city crushed her. She mentioned her father’s execution with tears that stained the page. She called it unjust, but softened the words: I don’t understand why the king didn’t do what he promised me. She would not dare set down anything that sounded like a direct accusation. This was not revenge in letters, but bait.
She took special care when speaking of Cersei. “I thought she would be like a mother,” she drafted in a sleepless dawn, “but I feel only cold where I expected affection.” She knew Joffrey would more easily believe her pain if it was not aimed solely at him.
Then came the hardest part: the change—the point where the Cruel King became something different.
There, Sansa wrote her confusion, her own irritation with herself. “I feel foolish,” she scribbled, “for despite it all I find myself in love with him. Despite the shouting, the threats, the eyes that burn like fire. In love, and angry at myself for being so weak.”
The lines that followed were lighter: how he made her float when he looked at her with tenderness, how her heart raced when she felt his hand over hers. They were lies, in part. But useful lies.
She recounted meeting Arthur, how he was a Northman and kind to her, and that she had seen a friend in him.
Tears began to spill again when she returned to the story of her brothers. The message she had received about Bran and Rickon, the despair of knowing they were dead. Her hands trembled over the paper.
I lost them. The world lost them. And I will never know why.
Her weeping wet the parchment, and Sansa pressed the cloth of her dress to her face. Ser Arys, standing a few paces off, pretended not to notice.
Still sobbing, she took up the quill again. She told how Arthur, being from the North and in the godswood to pray as well, had found her and comforted her, how that embrace beneath the trees had given her some relief in the cruelest moment. And there, in the diary, she poured the venom she hoped Joffrey would taste: she wrote that the king had seen the gesture and judged it an affair.
The words came out sharp: I feel like an idiot. I fell in love with Joffrey again, and even so he does not trust me. He believes I would betray him for another. For Arthur. And it breaks my heart.
The quill scratched the parchment as if each letter were a wound. Sansa let anger and hurt bleed into the lines. If Joffrey ever leafed through those pages, he would not find a betrayal, but the confession of a wounded girl who nonetheless turned back to him.
But everything seemed useless.
She shut the book hard and held it tight to her chest. The plan depended on Joffrey—on his curiosity, on his desire to spy on her, on his need to control even her secrets. But he did not come. He did not summon her. He did not seek her out to humiliate her or smile with sharp teeth. His silence was crueller than his words.
Sansa lifted her eyes to the clouded sky. The olive leaves shivered in the wind, and the smell of smoke seemed stronger among the branches.
“All for nothing,” she murmured to herself.
Alert, Ser Arys raised his head. “Did you say something, my lady?”
“No, Ser Arys. I was only thinking aloud.”
She opened the book again, not to write, but to pretend to read. The pages smelled of fresh ink, of sleepless nights, of vain hope.
And deep down Sansa knew: she could fill a thousand pages with confessions and dreams, but Joffrey would only read them if the gods willed it. Until then, there was nothing for her but to write. And to wait.
Ser Arys Oakheart stood a few steps away, in the shade of a cypress, his white cloak like a candle at dusk. He did not hurry her, but his mere presence was a reminder: everything was watched. Sansa bowed her head over the pages, letting a lock of hair fall to hide what she wrote, and added two sentences that looked innocent and yet carried the weight of a wager.
The wind moved the olive leaves and, for an instant, the garden was cloaked in little golden shadows, like fish scales. Sansa drew in the air with discreet effort; she liked to pretend she could smell apples and bread as in Winterfell, but what came was the rancid breath of bonfires that burned day and night beyond the walls. Even so, that corner of the garden was the closest to relief she knew.
“Lady Sansa.”
The voice at her back made the quill scratch the parchment awry. At first Sansa did not recognize the cadence—drier than affectionate, more command than greeting. Her heart leapt, and then she thought, with the clarity of someone drowning who finds solid rock, that perhaps this was her chance.
She shut the book with unnecessary haste. The clap of the cover sounded loud to her own ears. She stood so quickly she nearly toppled the inkwell, dipped in a curtsey, and forced the words through a throat suddenly stubborn and tight.
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace” came out trembling, heavy with everything she did not wish to show: fear, expectation, calculation. Sansa kept her eyes lowered long enough to breathe, then raised them slowly. Joffrey stood only a few steps away, gloved hands resting on his belt buckle, cloak hanging stiff, green eyes shining like glass passed through flame. He did not answer at once; first he let his keen gaze slide from her face to the small volume in her hands.
The book. Sansa felt the blood rush to her cheeks as if an oven’s breath had kissed them. There it was, so ordinary, so modest, so ready to be taken. She breathed again and pressed her fingers to the spine.
“What are you writing?” he asked, without greeting, the question as short as a yank of hair.
“It’s… it’s poetry, Your Grace.” The answer came out lower than she intended.
“I want to hear it.” There was no delicacy in the request; there was imposition. “Now.”
The command sliced the air. For an instant, Sansa weighed her own hand—was it trembling? Very little. An encouraging detail: she truly did write poetry in sleepless nights, like someone lighting candles to fool the dark. There were true things amid the traps of her “diary.” She opened the book to the page she knew as refuge, cleared her throat, and recited:
“When I was born a slender angel,
one of those who blow trumpets, announced:
you shall bear a banner.
A burden far too heavy for a woman,
this still-ashamed species.
I accept the subterfuges that are mine,
without needing to lie.”
For a moment the syllables seemed to push the smoke aside, as if each verse cleared a small pocket of air for Sansa to breathe within it. When she finished, she closed the book slowly and held it to her chest, nails marking the cover. She did not dare smile. She wondered, with severe honesty, whether Joffrey would understand. The poem said too much and, at the same time, nothing one would confess. It spoke of bearing a banner she had not chosen, of finding power even in gestures that looked like humiliation. A piece on the board, yet a piece that learns to move.
Joffrey did not answer at once. He studied her with those cool green eyes of his—a look that had made men trip over their own tongues and women wish to vanish into stone. Then he let his gaze drop once more to the little volume—not as one admires, but as one weighs.
“It’s good,” he said at last, curt. There was no warmth in the approval, but there was approval. “I’m here to apologize. My absence… was necessary. The city demands my time.”
Sansa lowered her lashes. “I understand, Your Grace.”
“Walk with me.” He did not ask; he invited with the certainty of one who expects obedience before the word.
“Yes, Your Grace.” She offered her arm, and he took it with his usual sense of ownership—firm, not gentle. Even so, the contact sparked a small flare of calculation within her: the king had touched her arm, had listened to her poem, and his eyes had returned to the book twice. Small signs, like crumbs left for a ravenous bird. It was all she had.
She would go to the godswood that night—but not to trade notes. Not that night. She would leave the solar free, the doors latched with nothing more than the usual, a perfect path for visitors who prefer the shadows. If Joffrey wished to confirm his betrothed’s obedience; if his curiosity, piqued by verses and memories, grew stronger than his boredom, he would come. Or send someone. And then the “diary” would do its work, pouring out, page by page, the story Sansa had chosen for him to read.
***
Joffrey
The Red Keep’s garden breathed silence among cracked stones and withered rosebushes. The sun hung low, tinting the sky copper, and the trees cast long shadows like eager fingers. Joffrey walked beside Sansa, her arm resting on his, light as if made of glass. Neither of them spoke.
The king let the silence stretch on purpose, because silence always weighed more on the other person. He glanced sidelong at his betrothed, and each of her gestures was an enigma: the veil trembling in the wind, the fingers clamped around the book, eyes held too low. Nervous. Hasty in snapping that book shut when he caught her. Nervous like someone afraid of being unmasked.
And that excited him. What had she written? What was she trying to hide? Joffrey felt her words pulsing inside those pages, begging to be read. The urge to tear the book from her hands still burned in his fingers.
Sansa swallowed. The sound was as clear as the crack of a snapping quill. Only then did she dare to speak.
“Your Grace… you truly have been absent. Gone.”
He didn’t look at her at once. He let the sentence hover in the air, heavy between them. Only then did he answer, his voice thick with disdain.
“You can’t blame me for not wanting to see you after what happened.”
Sansa pressed her lips together, as if deciding to swallow her own defense. “I won’t bother trying to explain. You’ve already decided what to believe.”
Joffrey stopped dead, so abruptly she nearly stumbled beside him. He turned, letting his green eyes fall on hers, examining every blue spark like an interrogator before a prisoner.
“Will you keep trying to deny what I saw?”
She lifted her chin with delicacy, but her voice held firm. “What the King saw was a girl being comforted by a friend. I had just learned that my younger brothers were dead.”
The words sliced the air like a thin blade. Sansa’s eyes filled with tears, and for an instant Joffrey lost control of his mask. Surprise crossed his face, clear and unguarded.
She knew. He knew that she knew.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked, voice catching. “When were you going to be honest with me?”
For a heartbeat, Joffrey had no answer. His mind ran in circles. He truly had not expected her to know about Bran and Rickon. He had not expected tears weighted with the fury of truth.
“I… was trying to find the best moment,” he said at last, each word chosen in a rush, like a man searching river stones not to sink.
But he could not allow himself weakness. He squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and let hardness return to his voice.
“That’s beside the point. What matters is that you were embracing a man when I wasn’t there.” He spat the word as one spits blood. “Without me.”
Sansa drew a long breath, and her voice trembled not with fear, but with anger.
“Arthur is a friend. The only friend I’ve made. I feel alone most of the time.”
She met his gaze steadily, her tear-bright eyes shining in her pale face.
“He’s from farther north, like me. He keeps the Old Gods as well. That’s all it was. He was in the godswood when he saw me crying. He only comforted me.”
Tears ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand, almost defying him.
“But I know you won’t believe me,” she added more softly.
Joffrey held his breath for a moment. There was something unbearable in it: those blue eyes full of pain, a tear sliding over fair skin. His body reacted before his mind—he wanted to pull her into his arms, pin her to his chest until she stopped trembling. A desire that repulsed him.
He clenched his hand hard, rage replacing tenderness in the span of seconds. If he allowed himself to touch her like that, he would be lost.
He turned his face away, set his mouth.
“Ser Arys,” he called, voice louder, colder.
The knight came at once, attentive as a well-trained hound.
“Take Lady Sansa back to her chambers.”
Sansa lowered her eyes, dipped a brief curtsey, and let herself be led away. The sound of her steps on stone faded, but Joffrey remained where he was, heart racing as if he had been running.
The image of her, eyes wet with tears, would not leave him. Nor would the knot in his chest.
And still, when he clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, he told himself he was right. That he had always been right. Because nothing—not even her pain—erased the memory of that embrace.
~.~
The king’s chamber was a battlefield without soldiers. Broken cups littered the carpet, a wine jar had spilled across the marble, dripping slowly as if bleeding. Cushions were torn, and a chair lay on its side, leg snapped like that of a fallen soldier. Joffrey panted, chest rising and falling in waves of leashed fury. His hands still trembled from hurling things.
How could her tears still trouble him? How could he, by the gods, want to believe what she had said? Sansa Stark, the liar, the little dove who trembled whenever he drew near, still stole his sleep. Night had fallen, and even so her face dogged him.
He dropped into an unbroken chair, fingers drumming on the wooden arm. He shut his eyes for an instant, but all he saw was the blue of hers, wet, accusing. It seemed true. No, more than that: it seemed sincere pain. But how to know the truth?
The book. That damned book. Was it only poetry? Or did it hide confessions, desires, betrayals? The memory of the lilac cover gnawed at him like acid.
Joffrey made a decision. He yanked the bellpull so hard he nearly tore it free. Shortly, Ser Osmund Kettleblack entered, armor clinking, his expression half alert, half fawning.
“Your Grace sent for me?”
“I want to know,” Joffrey said, voice sharp, “at what hour of the night Ser Arys usually escorts Lady Sansa to the godswood.”
Osmund scrunched his brow, thinking. “As soon as the sun sets, Your Grace. When the shadows start to lengthen. That’s when the young lady tends to pray.”
Joffrey lifted his chin, satisfied. “Then now. They should be there.”
He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Go to her chambers. Take a few trusted men. Look for a small book with a lilac cover. I want it here.”
Osmund started to ask something, then swallowed the words at the intensity of the king’s gaze. He bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
The king was alone again, the silence broken only by the crackle of the torches. Time crawled. Joffrey chewed his lip, stood, sat again. The delay was unbearable. What if they didn’t find it? What if Sansa had hidden it better than he imagined?
At last, footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door opened and Osmund entered with the book in hand. The lilac cover caught the torchlight like a forbidden gem.
“It was well hidden, Your Grace,” the guard said with a nervous smile. “Inside one of the girl’s feather pillows. We had to rip them to find it.”
Joffrey snatched the book from him like a man reclaiming a lost weapon. “Leave.”
“Perhaps it would be prudent to return it before Lady Sansa comes back, Your Grace. If she notices—”
“Leave!” Joffrey roared, his voice cracking like a lash across the room. Osmund retreated at once, vanishing down the passage.
Alone, Joffrey opened the book with greedy fingers. The first pages were trifles: spats with Arya in Winterfell, small memories of days that meant nothing. He flipped faster, impatient, until he reached the point when the royal party had come north.
It was strange to read how Sansa described her own anxiety before meeting him. Strange—and intoxicating. The flow of her hand looked trembling with excitement. And then, the supper. The first time they spoke.
Joffrey felt his lips curl into an involuntary smile.
“How enchanted she was by me…” he murmured. And for an instant, the memory of her look, so full of admiration, lanced him. How had he thrown that away?
He turned more pages. The tone shifted. Sansa described cruelty, fear, the shock of discovering who he truly was. She set down everything that happened to her, asking on the page why the king and his mother hated her so. Joffrey could picture her crying as she wrote, tears blurring the ink.
He found mentions of her father, the injustice of his death, the longing for mother and brothers. The name Winterfell surfaced again and again like a prayer. Joffrey felt anger rise. How dared she still think of that? How dared she set that place above him?
But he reined himself. What could he expect? She was a Stark. And a Stark never stopped grieving for the North.
He read on. The point shifted. There was her inner struggle, her confusion when he, out of whim or pride, chose to change his behavior. She called herself foolish, angry at herself for falling in love again. But she had fallen, again. The words leaped from the page like a belated victory.
Joffrey let out a short laugh. Victory. She loved him. Despite everything—shouts, pain, humiliations—she had let herself be carried back. The king’s heart beat faster, a strange mix of triumph and pleasure.
Then came the account of the godswood.
The lines were shorter, as if written in haste, heavy with tears. Sansa described her brothers’ deaths, the despair of not understanding why Joffrey had said nothing, the weight of bearing mourning in silence. She told of Arthur arriving by chance, of an embrace that was nothing more than comfort.
And then the cruelest memory: Joffrey’s gaze, misreading, condemning in silence.
The last sentences were daggers: she wrote that she didn’t understand why the king would not listen, would not believe her. She said it served as a lesson. That she deserved it. That she had been an idiot to let herself fall in love again.
Joffrey felt his whole body turn cold.
She had done nothing.
She had done nothing… and still suffered for his distrust.
The book shook in his hands. Each word seemed to spit fire, burning his skin. She was hurt. She was wounded by him…
The king stood, pacing the room, the book still open, pages fluttering in the torch-draft. The taste in his mouth was bitter. Not triumph, not rage. Something more corrosive: guilt.
“By the gods… what have I done?” he whispered, and his own voice sounded strange, as if it belonged to another man.
A mirror lay in shards across the carpet, torches reflected there in dozens of broken eyes. Joffrey stalked back and forth like a caged beast, his fingers still dusty with stone from the last goblet he’d hurled.
If Sansa had done nothing… what was left for him? What would he do now? She would never trust him again. He had sworn to himself he would not hurt her any more, but he had broken that promise so many times that the memory itself burned like red-hot iron. And above all, he had already agreed to cast her off, to give his hand to that Tyrell girl he did not even know.
“Cursed be the hour Arthur appeared,” he snarled, kicking a cushion aside. The torn cloth split and feathers whirled into the air, drifting down like grotesque snow.
Arthur. The name sounded wrong in his mouth. The boy had come from nowhere. And now, riffling through Sansa’s diary in his mind, he realized: she herself had written that she had met him only recently. He was no long-standing squire, no known lineage. Who was he, after all? Where had he come from? Why, out of everyone, had he drawn near to her?
Joffrey sat, fists clenched against his thighs. Nothing added up. The boy was always in the right shadow at the right hour. Like a piece moved by an invisible hand.
The memory of Tyrion’s name pulsed in his mind like a hidden dagger.
Joffrey yanked the bell again. Osmund Kettleblack returned shortly, still smelling of sweat and oiled leather.
“Bring me one of those children who haunt the corridors,” the king ordered, eyes blazing. “The ones who carry rags, scrub stairs. The ones the eunuch likes to listen to.”
Ser Osmund seemed to hesitate for an instant, then bowed his head and left.
When he came back, he brought a thin boy with wide eyes and clothes far too simple for the Red Keep. The child could not be more than eight. He stopped on the threshold, trembling, and made an awkward bow.
Joffrey put on a studied smile, gentle on the surface, sharp beneath.
“Welcome to the king’s chamber,” he said.
The boy stammered a misshapen “Your Grace.”
The king signaled to a waiting maid. “Juices and cakes for our little guest.”
A tray arrived at once, sweet aromas filling the heavy air. The boy’s eyes widened at the honeycakes and candied fruits.
“Eat,” Joffrey ordered with a magnanimous nod. “A king looks after those who serve.”
The boy sat on the offered stool, hesitant, and began to nibble the cake. Joffrey leaned forward, studying him like a hunter studies prey before choosing the strike.
“Tell me, boy… what do you like to do? What are your dreams?”
The boy wiped his fingers on his tunic before answering. “I… dream of being a squire, Your Grace. But I work helping the maids. I need to help my mother.”
Joffrey nodded, as if pleased by the confession.
“A good son,” he said, voice soft. “And perhaps a good squire one day. Maybe a knight. Tell me… would you like to earn some gold coins?”
The child’s eyes lit up like torches. He nodded hard.
“Then pay attention.” Joffrey leaned closer, his words whispered like a poisonous secret. “Have you seen a tall, dark-haired squire with blue eyes? They call him Arthur.”
The boy chewed in silence for a moment, thinking. Then he smiled, shyly. “I’ve seen him, yes, Your Grace. The women whisper about him a lot… always laughing.”
Joffrey had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, almost spitting the word. “That one. Have you seen him with anyone at court?”
The boy wrung his hands on his knees, thoughtful. “I saw him once… with Lord Tyrion. In the stables.”
Joffrey’s heart hammered like a marching drum.
“What were they doing?”
The boy swallowed. “Lord Tyrion seemed to be asking… about horses. Which ones frighten easily. That’s all, Your Grace.”
Joffrey let out his breath slowly, his shoulders easing a little. So that was it. Just another of his uncle’s oddities. Perhaps.
“And only Tyrion? No one else?”
The boy’s silence answered before his words. He looked at his feet, nervous.
“Look at me,” Joffrey ordered, voice hard as steel. “I am the king. And I command you to tell me the truth.”
The child’s eyes lifted, brimming. “These last few days… I saw Arthur near the queen. Talking. Always in corners.”
Joffrey’s blood boiled. His vision darkened for an instant, and he had to brace a hand on the chair arm to keep from leaping to his feet.
Cersei. Always Cersei.
Silence fell over the chamber like a heavy cloak. The torches crackled, casting long, prowling shadows.
Joffrey ran his tongue over dry lips, his heart still pounding.
Arthur. Tyrion. Cersei. The godswood. The diary. All of it tangled like invisible webs.
He closed his eyes for a moment but found no relief. Only more questions.
And the certainty that someone, somewhere, was deceiving him.
“Did you hear what they said?” he asked, each word dripping venom.
The boy shook his head quickly. “No, Your Grace. They speak softly. Or else…” He hesitated.
“Or else what?” Joffrey asked, raw with nerves and impatience.
“Or else they go to the Queen’s solar.”
Notes:
Sansa’s poem actually belongs to Adélia Prado and is called “Com Licença Poética.”
See you soon!
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LadySansaS_21 on Chapter 4 Thu 21 Nov 2024 02:15AM UTC
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