The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for
you,” Sandor Clegane warned her.
Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and
knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way
he had looked at her filled her with dread. Had Joffrey found out
about her meetings with Ser Dontos? Please no, she thought as she
brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was her only hope. I have to look
pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in
this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was
tight across her chest.
When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound’s left, away
from the burned side of his face. “Tell me what I’ve
done.”
“Not you. Your kingly brother.”
“Robb’s a traitor.” Sansa knew the words by
rote. “I had no part in whatever he did.” Gods be good,
don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime
Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how
those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt
pockmarked face.
The Hound snorted. “They trained you well, little
bird.” He conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd
had gathered around the archery butts. Men moved aside to let them
through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing. Loitering stablehands
eyed her insolently, but Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she
passed, and his brother Hobber pretended not to see her. A yellow
cat was dying on the ground, mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel
through its ribs. Sansa stepped around it, feeling ill.
Ser Dontos approached on his broomstick horse; since he’d
been too drunk to mount his destrier at the tourney, the king had
decreed that henceforth he must always go horsed. “Be
brave,” he whispered, squeezing her arm.
Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate
crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. The sight of them
was enough to tie her insides in knots.
“Your Grace.” She fell to her knees.
“Kneeling won’t save you now,” the king said.
“Stand up. You’re here to answer for your
brother’s latest treasons.”
“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had
no part. You know that, I beg you, please—”
“Get her up!”
The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.
“Ser Lancel,” Joff said, “tell her of this
outrage.”
Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well
spoken, but there was neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave
her. “Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser
Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from
Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept,
without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen
feasted on the flesh of the slain.”
Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa’s throat.
“You have nothing to say?” asked Joffrey.
“Your Grace, the poor child is shocked witless,”
murmured Ser Dontos.
“Silence, fool.” Joffrey lifted his crossbow and
pointed it at her face. “You Starks are as unnatural as those
wolves of yours. I’ve not forgotten how your monster savaged
me.”
“That was Arya’s wolf,” she said. “Lady
never hurt you, but you killed her anyway.”
“No, your father did,” Joff said, “but I
killed your father. I wish I’d done it myself. I killed a man
last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate
shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I
taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the
throat.”
“And he died?” With the ugly iron head of the
quarrel staring her in the face, it was hard to think what else to
say.
“Of course he died, he had my quarrel in his throat. There
was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the
arm.” Frowning, he lowered the crossbow. “I’d
shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they’d kill my uncle
Jaime. Instead you’ll just be punished and we’ll send
word to your brother about what will happen to you if he
doesn’t yield. Dog, hit her.”
“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin
armor clattering. He was armed with a “morningstar”
whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him,
blotchy skin and broken veins and all. He trotted his broomstick
around her, shouting “Traitor, traitor” and whacking
her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her
hands, staggering every time the fruit pounded her, her hair sticky
by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces.
Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the
front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.
Joffrey did not so much as snigger. “Boros.
Meryn.”
Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely
away. The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and
all. Ser Boros seized Sansa.
“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like
her pretty.”
Boros slammed a fist into Sansa’s belly, driving the air
out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and
drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he
meant to open her throat. As he laid the flat of the blade across
her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the
blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over
soon. She soon lost count of the blows.
“Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp.
“No it isn’t,” the king replied. “Boros,
make her naked.”
Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice
and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the
waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear
sniggers, far off and cruel. “Beat her bloody,” Joffrey
said, “we’ll see how her brother
fancies—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
The Imp’s voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa
was free. She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest,
her breath ragged. “Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser
Boros?” Tyrion Lannister demanded angrily. His pet sellsword
stood with him, and one of his wildlings, the one with the burned
eye. “What sort of knight beats helpless maids?”
“The sort who serves his king, Imp.” Ser Boros
raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade
scraping clear of its scabbard.
“Careful with those,” warned the dwarf’s
sellsword. “You don’t want to get blood all over those
pretty white cloaks.”
“Someone give the girl something to cover herself
with,” the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa
clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white
wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet
had ever felt so fine.
“This girl’s to be your queen,” the Imp told
Joffrey. “Have you no regard for her honor?”
“I’m punishing her.”
“For what crime? She did not fight her brother’s
battle.”
“She has the blood of a wolf.”
“And you have the wits of a goose.”
“You can’t talk to me that way. The king can do as
he likes.”
“Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever
told you what happened to him?”
Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. “No man threatens His Grace
in the presence of the Kingsguard.”
Tyrion Lannister raised an eyebrow. “I am not threatening
the king, ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, Timett, the next
time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him.” The dwarf smiled.
“Now that was a threat, ser. See the difference?”
Ser Boros turned a dark shade of red. “The queen will hear
of this!”
“No doubt she will. And why wait? Joffrey, shall we send
for your mother? “
The king flushed.
“Nothing to say, Your Grace?” his uncle went on.
“Good. Learn to use your ears more and your mouth less, or
your reign will be shorter than I am. Wanton brutality is no way to
win your people’s love . . . or your
queen’s.”
“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey
pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”
The Imp sighed. “Yes, I see. A pity Stannis and Renly
aren’t twelve-year-old girls as well. Bronn, Timett, bring
her.”
Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men
would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast,
but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had
not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from
grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.
Some serving girls took charge of her, mouthing meaningless
comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped off the ruins of her
gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky
juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with
soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were
the faces from the bailey. Knights are sworn to defend the weak,
protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a
thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a
knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the
Hound . . . the Hound hated
knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought.
They are no true knights, not one of them.
After she was clean, plump ginger-headed Maester Frenken came to
see her. He bid her lie facedown on the mattress while he spread a
salve across the angry red welts that covered the backs of her
legs. Afterward he mixed her a draught of dreamwine, with some
honey so it might go down easier. “Sleep a bit, child. When
you wake, all this will seem a bad dream.” No it won’t, you stupid man, Sansa thought, but she drank
the drearnwine anyway, and slept.
It was dark when she woke again, not quite knowing where she
was, the room both strange and strangely familiar. As she rose, a
stab of pain went through her legs and brought it all back. Tears
filled her eyes. Someone had laid out a robe for her beside the
bed. Sansa slipped it on and opened the door. Outside stood a
hard-faced woman with leathery brown skin, three necklaces looped
about her scrawny neck. One was gold and one was silver and one was
made of human ears. “Where does she think she’s
going?” the woman asked, leaning on a tall spear.
“The godswood.” She had to find Ser Dontos, beg him to
take her home now before it was too late.
“The halfman said you’re not to leave,” the
woman said. “Pray here, the gods will hear.”
Meekly, Sansa dropped her eyes and retreated back inside. She
realized suddenly why this place seemed so familiar. They’ve
put me in Arya’s old bedchamber, from when Father was the
Hand of the King. All her things are gone and the furnishings have
been moved around, but it’s the
same . . .
A short time later, a serving girl brought a platter of cheese
and bread and olives, with a flagon of cold water. “Take it
away,” Sansa commanded, but the girl left the food on a
table. She was thirsty, she realized. Every step sent knives
through her thighs, but she made herself cross the room. She drank
two cups of water, and was nibbling on an olive when the knock
came.
Anxiously, she turned toward the door, smoothed down the folds
of her robe. “Yes?”
The door opened, and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside. “My
lady. I trust I am not disturbing you?”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“My guest.” He was wearing his chain of office, a
necklace of linked golden hands. “I thought we might
talk.”
“As my lord commands.” Sansa found it hard not to
stare; his face was so ugly it held a queer fascination for
her.
“The food and garments are to your satisfaction?” he
asked. “If there is anything else you need, you have only to
ask.”
“You are most kind. And this
morning . . . it was very good of you to help
me.”
“You have a right to know why Joffrey was so wroth. Six
nights gone, your brother fell upon my uncle Stafford, encamped
with his host at a village called Oxcross not three days ride from
Casterly Rock. Your northerners won a crushing victory. We received
word only this morning.” Robb will kill you all, she thought, exulting.
“It’s . . . terrible, my lord. My
brother is a vile traitor.”
The dwarf smiled wanly. “Well, he’s no fawn,
he’s made that clear enough.”
“Ser Lancel said Robb led an army of wargs . . . ”
The Imp gave a disdainful bark of laughter. “Ser
Lancel’s a wineskin warrior who wouldn’t know a warg
from a wart. Your brother had his direwolf with him, but I suspect
that’s as far as it went. The northmen crept into my
uncle’s camp and cut his horse lines, and Lord Stark sent his
wolf among them. Even war-trained destriers went mad. Knights were
trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror
and fled, casting aside their weapons to run the faster. Ser
Stafford was slain as he chased after a horse. Lord Rickard
Karstark drove a lance through his chest. Ser Rubert Brax is also
dead, along with Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast.
Half a hundred more have been taken captive, including Jast’s
sons and my nephew Martyn Lannister. Those who survived are
spreading wild tales and swearing that the old gods of the north
march with your brother.”
“Then . . . there was no
sorcery?”
Lannister snorted. “Sorcery is the sauce fools spoon over
failure to hide the flavor of their own incompetence. My
mutton-headed uncle had not even troubled to post sentries, it
would seem. His host was raw—apprentice boys, miners, fieldhands,
fisherfolk, the sweepings of Lannisport. The only mystery is how
your brother reached him. Our forces still hold the stronghold at
the Golden Tooth, and they swear he did not pass.” The dwarf
gave an irritated shrug. “Well, Robb Stark is my
father’s bane. Joffrey is mine. Tell me, what do you feel for
my kingly nephew?”
“I love him with all my heart,” Sansa said at
once.
“Truly?” He did not sound convinced. “Even
now?”
“My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever
been.”
The Imp laughed aloud. “Well, someone has taught you to
lie well. You may be grateful for that one day, child. You are a
child still, are you not? Or have you flowered?”
Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being
stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.
“No, my lord.”
“That’s all to the good. If it gives you any solace,
I do not intend that you ever wed Joffrey. No marriage will
reconcile Stark and Lannister after all that has happened, I fear.
More’s the pity. The match was one of King Robert’s
better notions, if Joffrey hadn’t mucked it up.”
She knew she ought to say something, but the words caught in her
throat.
“You grow very quiet,” Tyrion Lannister observed.
“Is this what you want? An end to your betrothal?”
“I . . . ” Sansa did not know
what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth?
She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black
eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard.
“I only want to be loyal.”
“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any
Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I
wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you
visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for,
Sansa?” I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s
death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.
“I pray for an end to the fighting.”
“We’ll have that soon enough. There will be another
battle, between your brother Robb and my lord father, and that will
settle the issue.” Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your uncle and your
brother Jaime, he’ll beat your father too.
It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the dwarf
read her hopes. “Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my
lady,” he told her, not unkindly. “A battle is not a
war, and my lord father is assuredly not my uncle Stafford. The
next time you visit the godswood, pray that your brother has the
wisdom to bend the knee. Once the north returns to the king’s
peace, I mean to send you home.” He hopped down off the
window seat and said, “You may sleep here tonight. I’ll
give you some of my own men as a guard, some Stone Crows
perhaps—”
“No,” Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked
in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf’s men, how
would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away to freedom?
“Would you prefer Black Ears? I’ll give you Chella
if a woman would make you more at ease.”
“Please, no, my lord, the wildlings frighten
me.”
He grinned. “Me as well. But more to the point, they
frighten Joffrey and that nest of sly vipers and lickspittle dogs
he calls a Kingsguard. With Chella or Timett by your side, no one
would dare offer you harm.”
“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to
her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at
once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain.
Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their
blood wherever I looked.”
Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to
nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at
least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”
The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for
you,” Sandor Clegane warned her.
Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and
knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way
he had looked at her filled her with dread. Had Joffrey found out
about her meetings with Ser Dontos? Please no, she thought as she
brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was her only hope. I have to look
pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in
this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was
tight across her chest.
When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound’s left, away
from the burned side of his face. “Tell me what I’ve
done.”
“Not you. Your kingly brother.”
“Robb’s a traitor.” Sansa knew the words by
rote. “I had no part in whatever he did.” Gods be good,
don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime
Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how
those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt
pockmarked face.
The Hound snorted. “They trained you well, little
bird.” He conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd
had gathered around the archery butts. Men moved aside to let them
through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing. Loitering stablehands
eyed her insolently, but Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she
passed, and his brother Hobber pretended not to see her. A yellow
cat was dying on the ground, mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel
through its ribs. Sansa stepped around it, feeling ill.
Ser Dontos approached on his broomstick horse; since he’d
been too drunk to mount his destrier at the tourney, the king had
decreed that henceforth he must always go horsed. “Be
brave,” he whispered, squeezing her arm.
Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate
crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. The sight of them
was enough to tie her insides in knots.
“Your Grace.” She fell to her knees.
“Kneeling won’t save you now,” the king said.
“Stand up. You’re here to answer for your
brother’s latest treasons.”
“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had
no part. You know that, I beg you, please—”
“Get her up!”
The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.
“Ser Lancel,” Joff said, “tell her of this
outrage.”
Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well
spoken, but there was neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave
her. “Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser
Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from
Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept,
without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen
feasted on the flesh of the slain.”
Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa’s throat.
“You have nothing to say?” asked Joffrey.
“Your Grace, the poor child is shocked witless,”
murmured Ser Dontos.
“Silence, fool.” Joffrey lifted his crossbow and
pointed it at her face. “You Starks are as unnatural as those
wolves of yours. I’ve not forgotten how your monster savaged
me.”
“That was Arya’s wolf,” she said. “Lady
never hurt you, but you killed her anyway.”
“No, your father did,” Joff said, “but I
killed your father. I wish I’d done it myself. I killed a man
last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate
shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I
taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the
throat.”
“And he died?” With the ugly iron head of the
quarrel staring her in the face, it was hard to think what else to
say.
“Of course he died, he had my quarrel in his throat. There
was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the
arm.” Frowning, he lowered the crossbow. “I’d
shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they’d kill my uncle
Jaime. Instead you’ll just be punished and we’ll send
word to your brother about what will happen to you if he
doesn’t yield. Dog, hit her.”
“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin
armor clattering. He was armed with a “morningstar”
whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him,
blotchy skin and broken veins and all. He trotted his broomstick
around her, shouting “Traitor, traitor” and whacking
her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her
hands, staggering every time the fruit pounded her, her hair sticky
by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces.
Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the
front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.
Joffrey did not so much as snigger. “Boros.
Meryn.”
Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely
away. The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and
all. Ser Boros seized Sansa.
“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like
her pretty.”
Boros slammed a fist into Sansa’s belly, driving the air
out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and
drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he
meant to open her throat. As he laid the flat of the blade across
her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the
blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over
soon. She soon lost count of the blows.
“Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp.
“No it isn’t,” the king replied. “Boros,
make her naked.”
Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice
and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the
waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear
sniggers, far off and cruel. “Beat her bloody,” Joffrey
said, “we’ll see how her brother
fancies—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
The Imp’s voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa
was free. She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest,
her breath ragged. “Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser
Boros?” Tyrion Lannister demanded angrily. His pet sellsword
stood with him, and one of his wildlings, the one with the burned
eye. “What sort of knight beats helpless maids?”
“The sort who serves his king, Imp.” Ser Boros
raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade
scraping clear of its scabbard.
“Careful with those,” warned the dwarf’s
sellsword. “You don’t want to get blood all over those
pretty white cloaks.”
“Someone give the girl something to cover herself
with,” the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa
clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white
wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet
had ever felt so fine.
“This girl’s to be your queen,” the Imp told
Joffrey. “Have you no regard for her honor?”
“I’m punishing her.”
“For what crime? She did not fight her brother’s
battle.”
“She has the blood of a wolf.”
“And you have the wits of a goose.”
“You can’t talk to me that way. The king can do as
he likes.”
“Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever
told you what happened to him?”
Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. “No man threatens His Grace
in the presence of the Kingsguard.”
Tyrion Lannister raised an eyebrow. “I am not threatening
the king, ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, Timett, the next
time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him.” The dwarf smiled.
“Now that was a threat, ser. See the difference?”
Ser Boros turned a dark shade of red. “The queen will hear
of this!”
“No doubt she will. And why wait? Joffrey, shall we send
for your mother? “
The king flushed.
“Nothing to say, Your Grace?” his uncle went on.
“Good. Learn to use your ears more and your mouth less, or
your reign will be shorter than I am. Wanton brutality is no way to
win your people’s love . . . or your
queen’s.”
“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey
pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”
The Imp sighed. “Yes, I see. A pity Stannis and Renly
aren’t twelve-year-old girls as well. Bronn, Timett, bring
her.”
Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men
would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast,
but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had
not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from
grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.
Some serving girls took charge of her, mouthing meaningless
comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped off the ruins of her
gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky
juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with
soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were
the faces from the bailey. Knights are sworn to defend the weak,
protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a
thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a
knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the
Hound . . . the Hound hated
knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought.
They are no true knights, not one of them.
After she was clean, plump ginger-headed Maester Frenken came to
see her. He bid her lie facedown on the mattress while he spread a
salve across the angry red welts that covered the backs of her
legs. Afterward he mixed her a draught of dreamwine, with some
honey so it might go down easier. “Sleep a bit, child. When
you wake, all this will seem a bad dream.” No it won’t, you stupid man, Sansa thought, but she drank
the drearnwine anyway, and slept.
It was dark when she woke again, not quite knowing where she
was, the room both strange and strangely familiar. As she rose, a
stab of pain went through her legs and brought it all back. Tears
filled her eyes. Someone had laid out a robe for her beside the
bed. Sansa slipped it on and opened the door. Outside stood a
hard-faced woman with leathery brown skin, three necklaces looped
about her scrawny neck. One was gold and one was silver and one was
made of human ears. “Where does she think she’s
going?” the woman asked, leaning on a tall spear.
“The godswood.” She had to find Ser Dontos, beg him to
take her home now before it was too late.
“The halfman said you’re not to leave,” the
woman said. “Pray here, the gods will hear.”
Meekly, Sansa dropped her eyes and retreated back inside. She
realized suddenly why this place seemed so familiar. They’ve
put me in Arya’s old bedchamber, from when Father was the
Hand of the King. All her things are gone and the furnishings have
been moved around, but it’s the
same . . .
A short time later, a serving girl brought a platter of cheese
and bread and olives, with a flagon of cold water. “Take it
away,” Sansa commanded, but the girl left the food on a
table. She was thirsty, she realized. Every step sent knives
through her thighs, but she made herself cross the room. She drank
two cups of water, and was nibbling on an olive when the knock
came.
Anxiously, she turned toward the door, smoothed down the folds
of her robe. “Yes?”
The door opened, and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside. “My
lady. I trust I am not disturbing you?”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“My guest.” He was wearing his chain of office, a
necklace of linked golden hands. “I thought we might
talk.”
“As my lord commands.” Sansa found it hard not to
stare; his face was so ugly it held a queer fascination for
her.
“The food and garments are to your satisfaction?” he
asked. “If there is anything else you need, you have only to
ask.”
“You are most kind. And this
morning . . . it was very good of you to help
me.”
“You have a right to know why Joffrey was so wroth. Six
nights gone, your brother fell upon my uncle Stafford, encamped
with his host at a village called Oxcross not three days ride from
Casterly Rock. Your northerners won a crushing victory. We received
word only this morning.” Robb will kill you all, she thought, exulting.
“It’s . . . terrible, my lord. My
brother is a vile traitor.”
The dwarf smiled wanly. “Well, he’s no fawn,
he’s made that clear enough.”
“Ser Lancel said Robb led an army of wargs . . . ”
The Imp gave a disdainful bark of laughter. “Ser
Lancel’s a wineskin warrior who wouldn’t know a warg
from a wart. Your brother had his direwolf with him, but I suspect
that’s as far as it went. The northmen crept into my
uncle’s camp and cut his horse lines, and Lord Stark sent his
wolf among them. Even war-trained destriers went mad. Knights were
trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror
and fled, casting aside their weapons to run the faster. Ser
Stafford was slain as he chased after a horse. Lord Rickard
Karstark drove a lance through his chest. Ser Rubert Brax is also
dead, along with Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast.
Half a hundred more have been taken captive, including Jast’s
sons and my nephew Martyn Lannister. Those who survived are
spreading wild tales and swearing that the old gods of the north
march with your brother.”
“Then . . . there was no
sorcery?”
Lannister snorted. “Sorcery is the sauce fools spoon over
failure to hide the flavor of their own incompetence. My
mutton-headed uncle had not even troubled to post sentries, it
would seem. His host was raw—apprentice boys, miners, fieldhands,
fisherfolk, the sweepings of Lannisport. The only mystery is how
your brother reached him. Our forces still hold the stronghold at
the Golden Tooth, and they swear he did not pass.” The dwarf
gave an irritated shrug. “Well, Robb Stark is my
father’s bane. Joffrey is mine. Tell me, what do you feel for
my kingly nephew?”
“I love him with all my heart,” Sansa said at
once.
“Truly?” He did not sound convinced. “Even
now?”
“My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever
been.”
The Imp laughed aloud. “Well, someone has taught you to
lie well. You may be grateful for that one day, child. You are a
child still, are you not? Or have you flowered?”
Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being
stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.
“No, my lord.”
“That’s all to the good. If it gives you any solace,
I do not intend that you ever wed Joffrey. No marriage will
reconcile Stark and Lannister after all that has happened, I fear.
More’s the pity. The match was one of King Robert’s
better notions, if Joffrey hadn’t mucked it up.”
She knew she ought to say something, but the words caught in her
throat.
“You grow very quiet,” Tyrion Lannister observed.
“Is this what you want? An end to your betrothal?”
“I . . . ” Sansa did not know
what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth?
She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black
eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard.
“I only want to be loyal.”
“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any
Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I
wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you
visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for,
Sansa?” I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s
death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.
“I pray for an end to the fighting.”
“We’ll have that soon enough. There will be another
battle, between your brother Robb and my lord father, and that will
settle the issue.” Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your uncle and your
brother Jaime, he’ll beat your father too.
It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the dwarf
read her hopes. “Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my
lady,” he told her, not unkindly. “A battle is not a
war, and my lord father is assuredly not my uncle Stafford. The
next time you visit the godswood, pray that your brother has the
wisdom to bend the knee. Once the north returns to the king’s
peace, I mean to send you home.” He hopped down off the
window seat and said, “You may sleep here tonight. I’ll
give you some of my own men as a guard, some Stone Crows
perhaps—”
“No,” Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked
in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf’s men, how
would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away to freedom?
“Would you prefer Black Ears? I’ll give you Chella
if a woman would make you more at ease.”
“Please, no, my lord, the wildlings frighten
me.”
He grinned. “Me as well. But more to the point, they
frighten Joffrey and that nest of sly vipers and lickspittle dogs
he calls a Kingsguard. With Chella or Timett by your side, no one
would dare offer you harm.”
“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to
her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at
once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain.
Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their
blood wherever I looked.”
Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to
nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at
least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”