The torches shimmered brightly against the hammered metal of the
wall sconces, filling the Queen’s Ballroom with silvery
light. Yet there was still darkness in that hall. Sansa could see
it in the pale eyes of Ser Ilyn Payne, who stood by the back door
still as stone, taking neither food nor wine. She could hear it in
Lord Gyles’s racking cough, and the whispered voice of Osney
Kettleblack when he slipped in to bring Cersei the tidings.
Sansa was finishing her broth when he came the first time,
entering through the back. She glimpsed him talking to his brother
Osfryd. Then he climbed the dais and knelt beside the high seat,
smelling of horse, four long thin scratches on his cheek crusted
with scabs, his hair falling down past his collar and into his
eyes. For all his whispering, Sansa could not help but hear.
“The fleets are locked in battle. Some archers got ashore,
but the Hound’s cut them to pieces, Y’Grace. Your
brother’s raising his chain, I heard the signal. Some
drunkards down to Flea Bottom are smashing doors and climbing
through windows. Lord Bywater’s sent the gold cloaks to deal
with them. Baelor’s Sept is jammed full, everyone
praying.”
“And my son?”
“The king went to Baelor’s to get the High
Septon’s blessing. Now he’s walking the walls with the
Hand, telling the men to be brave, lifting their spirits as it
were.”
Cersei beckoned to her page for another cup of wine, a golden
vintage from the Arbor, fruity and rich. The queen was drinking
heavily, but the wine only seemed to make her more beautiful; her
cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a bright, feverish heat to
them as she looked down over the hall. Eyes of wildfire, Sansa
thought.
Musicians played. Jugglers juggled. Moon Boy lurched about the
hall on stilts making mock of everyone, while Ser Dontos chased
serving girls on his broomstick horse. The guests laughed, but it
was a joyless laughter, the sort of laughter that can turn into
sobbing in half a heartbeat. Their bodies are here, but their
thoughts are on the city walls, and their hearts as well.
After the broth came a salad of apples, nuts, and raisins. At
any other time, it might have made a tasty dish, but tonight all
the food was flavored with fear. Sansa was not the only one in the
hall without an appetite. Lord Gyles was coughing more than he was
eating, Lollys Stokeworth sat hunched and shivering, and the young
bride of one of Ser Lancel’s knights began to weep
uncontrollably. The queen commanded Maester Frenken to put her to
bed with a cup of dreamwine. “Tears,” she said
scornfully to Sansa as the woman was led from the hall. “The
woman’s weapon, my lady mother used to call them. The
man’s weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to
know, doesn’t it?”
“Men must be very brave, though,” said Sansa.
“To ride out and face swords and axes, everyone trying to
kill you . . . ”
“Jaime told me once that he only feels truly alive in
battle and in bed.” She lifted her cup and took a long
swallow. Her salad was untouched. “I would sooner face any
number of swords than sit helpless like this, pretending to enjoy
the company of this flock of frightened hens.”
“You asked them here, Your Grace.”
“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be
expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The
queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the
benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks
are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this
battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my
wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they
will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how
brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits,
how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”
“And if the castle should fall?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cersei
did not wait for a denial. “If I’m not betrayed by my
own guards, I may be able to hold here for a time. Then I can go to
the walls and offer to yield to Lord Stannis in person. That will
spare us the worst. But if Maegor’s Holdfast should fall
before Stannis can come up, why then, most of my guests are in for
a bit of rape, I’d say. And you should never rule out mutilation,
torture, and murder at times like these.”
Sansa was horrified. “These are women, unarmed, and gently
born.”
“Their birth protects them,” Cersei admitted,
“though not as much as you’d think. Each one’s
worth a good ransom, but after the madness of battle, soldiers
often seem to want flesh more than coin. Even so, a golden shield
is better than none. Out in the streets, the women won’t be
treated near as tenderly. Nor will our servants. Pretty things like
that serving wench of Lady Tanda’s could be in for a lively
night, but don’t imagine the old and the infirm and the ugly
will be spared. Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and
reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.
“Me?”
“Try not to sound so like a mouse,
Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember? And betrothed to my
firstborn.” The queen sipped at her wine. “Were it
anyone else outside the gates, I might hope to beguile him. But
this is Stannis Baratheon. I’d have a better chance of
seducing his horse.” She noticed the look on Sansa’s
face, and laughed. “Have I shocked you, my lady?” She
leaned close. “You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s
only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and
you’d best learn to use it. You’ll find men use their
swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords.”
Sansa was spared the need to reply when two Kettleblacks
reentered the hall. Ser Osmund and his brothers had become great
favorites about the castle; they were always ready with a smile and
a jest, and got on with grooms and huntsmen as well as they did
with knights and squires. With the serving wenches they got on best
of all, it was gossiped. Of late Ser Osmund had taken Sandor
Clegane’s place by Joffrey’s side, and Sansa had heard
the women at the washing well saying he was as strong as the Hound,
only younger and faster. If that was so, she wondered why she had
never once heard of these Kettleblacks before Ser Osmund was named
to the Kingsguard.
Osney was all smiles as he knelt beside the queen. “The
hulks have gone up, Y’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.” Cersei
turned to his brother Osfryd, who was taller, sterner, and wore a
drooping black mustache. “Yes?”
Osfryd had donned a steel halfhelm over his long black hair, and
the look on his face was grim, “Y’Grace,” he said
quietly, “the boys caught a groom and two maidservants trying
to sneak out a postern with three of the king’s
horses.”
“The night’s first traitors,” the queen said,
“but not the last, I fear. Have Ser Ilyn see to them, and put
their heads on pikes outside the stables as a warning.” As
they left, she turned to Sansa. “Another lesson you should
learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like
this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like
mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal
is to make certain they fear you more than they do the
enemy.”
“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though
she had always heard that love was a surer route to the
people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll
make them love me.
Crabclaw pies followed the salad. Then came mutton roasted with
leeks and carrots, served in trenchers of hollowed bread. Lollys
ate too fast, got sick, and retched all over herself and her
sister. Lord Gyles coughed, drank, coughed, drank, and passed out.
The queen gazed down in disgust to where he sprawled with his face
in his trencher and his hand in a puddle of wine. “The gods
must have been mad to waste manhood on the likes of him, and I must
have been mad to demand his release.”
Osfryd Kettleblack returned, crimson cloak swirling.
“There’s folks gathering in the square, Y’Grace,
asking to take refuge in the castle. Not a mob, rich merchants and
the like.”
“Command them to return to their homes,” the queen
said. “If they won’t go, have our crossbowmen kill a
few. No sorties; I won’t have the gates opened for any
reason.”
“As you command.” He bowed and moved off.
The queen’s face was hard and angry. “Would that I
could take a sword to their necks myself.” Her voice was
starting to slur. “When we were little, Jaime and I were so
much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart.
Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other’s clothes
and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime
was given his first sword, there was none for me. ‘What do I
get?’ I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never
understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to
fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile
and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to
be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new
owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a
younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while
mine was birth and moonblood.”
“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,”
Sansa said.
“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after
all.”
Cersei’s wine cup was empty. The page moved to fill it
again, but she turned it over and shook her head. “No more. I
must keep a clear head.”
The last course was goat cheese served with baked apples. The
scent of cinnamon filled the hall as Osney Kettleblack slipped in
to kneel once more between them. “Y’Grace,” he
murmured. “Stannis has landed men on the tourney grounds, and
there’s more coming across. The Mud Gate’s under
attack, and they’ve brought a ram to the King’s Gate.
The Imp’s gone out to drive them off.”
“That will fill them with fear,” the queen said
dryly. “He hasn’t taken Joff, I hope.”
“No, Y’Grace, the king’s with my brother at
the Whores, flinging Antler Men into the river.”
“With the Mud Gate under assault? Folly. Tell Ser Osmund I
want him out of there at once, it’s too dangerous. Fetch him
back to the castle.”
“The Imp said—”
“It’s what I said that ought concern you.”
Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother will do as
he’s told, or I’ll see to it that he leads the next
sortie himself, and you’ll go with him.”
After the meal had been cleared away, many of the guests asked
leave to go to the sept. Cersei graciously granted their request.
Lady Tanda and her daughters were among those who fled. For those
who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the
sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of
Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother’s
queen, of Nymeria’s ten thousand ships. They were beautiful
songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and
Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.
“Very good, dear.” The queen leaned close.
“You want to practice those tears. You’ll need them for
King Stannis.”
Sansa shifted nervously. “Your Grace?”
“Oh, spare me your hollow courtesies. Matters must have
reached a desperate strait out there if they need a dwarf to lead
them, so you might as well take off your mask. I know all about
your little treasons in the godswood.”
“The godswood?” Don’t look at Ser Dontos,
don’t, don’t, Sansa told herself. She doesn’t
know, no one knows, Dontos promised me, my Florian would never fail
me. “I’ve done no treasons. I only visit the godswood
to pray.”
“For Stannis. Or your brother, it’s all the same.
Why else seek your father’s gods? You’re praying for
our defeat. What would you call that, if not treason?”
“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.
“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen
took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and
filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded
coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with
truth for a change.”
Sansa lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. The wine was
cloyingly sweet, but very strong.
“You can do better than that,” Cersei said.
“Drain the cup, Sansa. Your queen commands you.” It
almost gagged her, but Sansa emptied the cup, gulping down the
thick sweet wine until her head was swimming.
“More?” Cersei asked.
“No. Please.”
The queen looked displeased. “When you asked about Ser
Ilyn earlier, I lied to you. Would you like to hear the truth,
Sansa? Would you like to know why he’s really
here?”
She did not dare answer, but it did not matter. The queen raised
a hand and beckoned, never waiting for a reply. Sansa had not even
seen Ser Ilyn return to the hall, but suddenly there he was,
striding from the shadows behind the dais as silent as a cat. He
carried Ice unsheathed. Her father had always cleaned the blade in
the godswood after he took a man’s head, Sansa recalled, but
Ser Ilyn was not so fastidious. There was blood drying on the
rippling steel, the red already fading to brown. “Tell Lady
Sansa why I keep you by us,” said Cersei.
Ser Ilyn opened his mouth and emitted a choking rattle. His
pox-scarred face had no expression.
“He’s here for us, he says,” the queen said.
“Stannis may take the city and he may take the throne, but I
will not suffer him to judge me. I do not mean for him to have us
alive.”
“Us?”
“You heard me. So perhaps you had best pray again, Sansa,
and for a different outcome. The Starks will have no joy from the
fall of House Lannister, I promise you.” She reached out and
touched Sansa’s hair, brushing it lightly away from her
neck.
The torches shimmered brightly against the hammered metal of the
wall sconces, filling the Queen’s Ballroom with silvery
light. Yet there was still darkness in that hall. Sansa could see
it in the pale eyes of Ser Ilyn Payne, who stood by the back door
still as stone, taking neither food nor wine. She could hear it in
Lord Gyles’s racking cough, and the whispered voice of Osney
Kettleblack when he slipped in to bring Cersei the tidings.
Sansa was finishing her broth when he came the first time,
entering through the back. She glimpsed him talking to his brother
Osfryd. Then he climbed the dais and knelt beside the high seat,
smelling of horse, four long thin scratches on his cheek crusted
with scabs, his hair falling down past his collar and into his
eyes. For all his whispering, Sansa could not help but hear.
“The fleets are locked in battle. Some archers got ashore,
but the Hound’s cut them to pieces, Y’Grace. Your
brother’s raising his chain, I heard the signal. Some
drunkards down to Flea Bottom are smashing doors and climbing
through windows. Lord Bywater’s sent the gold cloaks to deal
with them. Baelor’s Sept is jammed full, everyone
praying.”
“And my son?”
“The king went to Baelor’s to get the High
Septon’s blessing. Now he’s walking the walls with the
Hand, telling the men to be brave, lifting their spirits as it
were.”
Cersei beckoned to her page for another cup of wine, a golden
vintage from the Arbor, fruity and rich. The queen was drinking
heavily, but the wine only seemed to make her more beautiful; her
cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a bright, feverish heat to
them as she looked down over the hall. Eyes of wildfire, Sansa
thought.
Musicians played. Jugglers juggled. Moon Boy lurched about the
hall on stilts making mock of everyone, while Ser Dontos chased
serving girls on his broomstick horse. The guests laughed, but it
was a joyless laughter, the sort of laughter that can turn into
sobbing in half a heartbeat. Their bodies are here, but their
thoughts are on the city walls, and their hearts as well.
After the broth came a salad of apples, nuts, and raisins. At
any other time, it might have made a tasty dish, but tonight all
the food was flavored with fear. Sansa was not the only one in the
hall without an appetite. Lord Gyles was coughing more than he was
eating, Lollys Stokeworth sat hunched and shivering, and the young
bride of one of Ser Lancel’s knights began to weep
uncontrollably. The queen commanded Maester Frenken to put her to
bed with a cup of dreamwine. “Tears,” she said
scornfully to Sansa as the woman was led from the hall. “The
woman’s weapon, my lady mother used to call them. The
man’s weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to
know, doesn’t it?”
“Men must be very brave, though,” said Sansa.
“To ride out and face swords and axes, everyone trying to
kill you . . . ”
“Jaime told me once that he only feels truly alive in
battle and in bed.” She lifted her cup and took a long
swallow. Her salad was untouched. “I would sooner face any
number of swords than sit helpless like this, pretending to enjoy
the company of this flock of frightened hens.”
“You asked them here, Your Grace.”
“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be
expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The
queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the
benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks
are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this
battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my
wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they
will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how
brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits,
how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”
“And if the castle should fall?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cersei
did not wait for a denial. “If I’m not betrayed by my
own guards, I may be able to hold here for a time. Then I can go to
the walls and offer to yield to Lord Stannis in person. That will
spare us the worst. But if Maegor’s Holdfast should fall
before Stannis can come up, why then, most of my guests are in for
a bit of rape, I’d say. And you should never rule out mutilation,
torture, and murder at times like these.”
Sansa was horrified. “These are women, unarmed, and gently
born.”
“Their birth protects them,” Cersei admitted,
“though not as much as you’d think. Each one’s
worth a good ransom, but after the madness of battle, soldiers
often seem to want flesh more than coin. Even so, a golden shield
is better than none. Out in the streets, the women won’t be
treated near as tenderly. Nor will our servants. Pretty things like
that serving wench of Lady Tanda’s could be in for a lively
night, but don’t imagine the old and the infirm and the ugly
will be spared. Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and
reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.
“Me?”
“Try not to sound so like a mouse,
Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember? And betrothed to my
firstborn.” The queen sipped at her wine. “Were it
anyone else outside the gates, I might hope to beguile him. But
this is Stannis Baratheon. I’d have a better chance of
seducing his horse.” She noticed the look on Sansa’s
face, and laughed. “Have I shocked you, my lady?” She
leaned close. “You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s
only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and
you’d best learn to use it. You’ll find men use their
swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords.”
Sansa was spared the need to reply when two Kettleblacks
reentered the hall. Ser Osmund and his brothers had become great
favorites about the castle; they were always ready with a smile and
a jest, and got on with grooms and huntsmen as well as they did
with knights and squires. With the serving wenches they got on best
of all, it was gossiped. Of late Ser Osmund had taken Sandor
Clegane’s place by Joffrey’s side, and Sansa had heard
the women at the washing well saying he was as strong as the Hound,
only younger and faster. If that was so, she wondered why she had
never once heard of these Kettleblacks before Ser Osmund was named
to the Kingsguard.
Osney was all smiles as he knelt beside the queen. “The
hulks have gone up, Y’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.” Cersei
turned to his brother Osfryd, who was taller, sterner, and wore a
drooping black mustache. “Yes?”
Osfryd had donned a steel halfhelm over his long black hair, and
the look on his face was grim, “Y’Grace,” he said
quietly, “the boys caught a groom and two maidservants trying
to sneak out a postern with three of the king’s
horses.”
“The night’s first traitors,” the queen said,
“but not the last, I fear. Have Ser Ilyn see to them, and put
their heads on pikes outside the stables as a warning.” As
they left, she turned to Sansa. “Another lesson you should
learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like
this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like
mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal
is to make certain they fear you more than they do the
enemy.”
“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though
she had always heard that love was a surer route to the
people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll
make them love me.
Crabclaw pies followed the salad. Then came mutton roasted with
leeks and carrots, served in trenchers of hollowed bread. Lollys
ate too fast, got sick, and retched all over herself and her
sister. Lord Gyles coughed, drank, coughed, drank, and passed out.
The queen gazed down in disgust to where he sprawled with his face
in his trencher and his hand in a puddle of wine. “The gods
must have been mad to waste manhood on the likes of him, and I must
have been mad to demand his release.”
Osfryd Kettleblack returned, crimson cloak swirling.
“There’s folks gathering in the square, Y’Grace,
asking to take refuge in the castle. Not a mob, rich merchants and
the like.”
“Command them to return to their homes,” the queen
said. “If they won’t go, have our crossbowmen kill a
few. No sorties; I won’t have the gates opened for any
reason.”
“As you command.” He bowed and moved off.
The queen’s face was hard and angry. “Would that I
could take a sword to their necks myself.” Her voice was
starting to slur. “When we were little, Jaime and I were so
much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart.
Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other’s clothes
and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime
was given his first sword, there was none for me. ‘What do I
get?’ I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never
understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to
fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile
and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to
be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new
owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a
younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while
mine was birth and moonblood.”
“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,”
Sansa said.
“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after
all.”
Cersei’s wine cup was empty. The page moved to fill it
again, but she turned it over and shook her head. “No more. I
must keep a clear head.”
The last course was goat cheese served with baked apples. The
scent of cinnamon filled the hall as Osney Kettleblack slipped in
to kneel once more between them. “Y’Grace,” he
murmured. “Stannis has landed men on the tourney grounds, and
there’s more coming across. The Mud Gate’s under
attack, and they’ve brought a ram to the King’s Gate.
The Imp’s gone out to drive them off.”
“That will fill them with fear,” the queen said
dryly. “He hasn’t taken Joff, I hope.”
“No, Y’Grace, the king’s with my brother at
the Whores, flinging Antler Men into the river.”
“With the Mud Gate under assault? Folly. Tell Ser Osmund I
want him out of there at once, it’s too dangerous. Fetch him
back to the castle.”
“The Imp said—”
“It’s what I said that ought concern you.”
Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother will do as
he’s told, or I’ll see to it that he leads the next
sortie himself, and you’ll go with him.”
After the meal had been cleared away, many of the guests asked
leave to go to the sept. Cersei graciously granted their request.
Lady Tanda and her daughters were among those who fled. For those
who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the
sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of
Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother’s
queen, of Nymeria’s ten thousand ships. They were beautiful
songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and
Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.
“Very good, dear.” The queen leaned close.
“You want to practice those tears. You’ll need them for
King Stannis.”
Sansa shifted nervously. “Your Grace?”
“Oh, spare me your hollow courtesies. Matters must have
reached a desperate strait out there if they need a dwarf to lead
them, so you might as well take off your mask. I know all about
your little treasons in the godswood.”
“The godswood?” Don’t look at Ser Dontos,
don’t, don’t, Sansa told herself. She doesn’t
know, no one knows, Dontos promised me, my Florian would never fail
me. “I’ve done no treasons. I only visit the godswood
to pray.”
“For Stannis. Or your brother, it’s all the same.
Why else seek your father’s gods? You’re praying for
our defeat. What would you call that, if not treason?”
“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.
“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen
took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and
filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded
coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with
truth for a change.”
Sansa lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. The wine was
cloyingly sweet, but very strong.
“You can do better than that,” Cersei said.
“Drain the cup, Sansa. Your queen commands you.” It
almost gagged her, but Sansa emptied the cup, gulping down the
thick sweet wine until her head was swimming.
“More?” Cersei asked.
“No. Please.”
The queen looked displeased. “When you asked about Ser
Ilyn earlier, I lied to you. Would you like to hear the truth,
Sansa? Would you like to know why he’s really
here?”
She did not dare answer, but it did not matter. The queen raised
a hand and beckoned, never waiting for a reply. Sansa had not even
seen Ser Ilyn return to the hall, but suddenly there he was,
striding from the shadows behind the dais as silent as a cat. He
carried Ice unsheathed. Her father had always cleaned the blade in
the godswood after he took a man’s head, Sansa recalled, but
Ser Ilyn was not so fastidious. There was blood drying on the
rippling steel, the red already fading to brown. “Tell Lady
Sansa why I keep you by us,” said Cersei.
Ser Ilyn opened his mouth and emitted a choking rattle. His
pox-scarred face had no expression.
“He’s here for us, he says,” the queen said.
“Stannis may take the city and he may take the throne, but I
will not suffer him to judge me. I do not mean for him to have us
alive.”
“Us?”
“You heard me. So perhaps you had best pray again, Sansa,
and for a different outcome. The Starks will have no joy from the
fall of House Lannister, I promise you.” She reached out and
touched Sansa’s hair, brushing it lightly away from her
neck.