ASOIAF: King of Winter

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Chapter 16

Sansa Stark

As the current betrothed to the King, Sansa had the "honor" to sit in the high seat to his left, as the boy king held a duel tournament for his name day atop the walls of the Red Keep, to sate his appetite for violence.

His siblings were to his right, Tommen and Myrcella, who were equally unwilling to be here as she was, the members of the Small Council were absent, as they were holding a session.

All in the midst of a famine, as provisions were kept in the Red Keep, leaving the smallfolk of Kingslanding but the scraps, rats, and each other as sustenance.

The Hound blocks a swing of his opponents sword with his own mace, slamming the side of his shield on his opponent's helmet. The other knight staggers, leaving Clegane the opportunity to make a large swing of his mace, which is clumsily blocked by a shield.

The knight tries to counter attack, but Sandor –belaying his size- swiftly dodge and slams his shield off with his own weapon, before pushing him across the railing into the bottom of the walls of the Red Keep, his head crushed into the red bricks, blending with their ominous, red hue.

Joffrey steps to the edge, gleefully staring at the dead corpse.

"Well struck. Well struck, dog!" He turns to Sansa, pointing towards the dead man as he was dragged off his own puddle of blood. "Did you like that?" He asks.

Her brother's exercises prove unnaturally fruitful, as she simply took a deep breathe, projecting her mind not in a creature, but just into the Ether. "It was well struck, your Grace." She managed to stop the bile from coming out, somehow keeping a straight face.

"I already said it was well struck." He exclaims with a tinge of anger.

"Yes, your Grace." She answers, turning back toward the battlements turned into a makeshift arena.

Joffrey silently seethes, turning to address the Herald. "Who's next?"

"Lothor Brune! Freerider in the service of Lord Baelish!" The man's answer is followed by the arrival of the next contestants, urging the spectators to clap in mild applause. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!"

The second man doesn't show at first, so he repeats. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard?!" His voice is loud, but questioning.

"Here I am! Here I am!" A chubby man of modest height steps from the side, clumsily holding onto his helmet and holding a queer short spear with a thin club at its end.

The man makes for a pathetic spectacle, he drops his helmet, hobbles to grab it, slowly puts it on backward, then shakily turns it back.

"Sorry your grace." His head shimmies awkwardly under the oversized helmet. "My deepest apologies."

"Are you drunk?" Joffrey asks.

"No. No, your Grace." He stutters. "I had two cups of wine."

"Two cups?" Joffrey gets a tone that shows he was dangerously amused. "That's not much at all." He points with his hand toward the golden pitcher full of wine. "Please, have another cup." He says.

The man- Dontos, quizzically stares at the boy king. "Are you sure, your grace?" He asks.

"Yes. To celebrate my name day." Joffrey's voice is urging. "Have two, have as much as you like."

The man shakily nods, bowing toward him. "I'll be honored, your Grace."

Joffrey turns to Ser Meryn, a horrible man with a sadistic disposition, that had the poor honor of being a member of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day." He orders. "See that he drinks his fill."

The chubby man foolishly smiles as Ser Meryn approaches, but his happy mood swiftly ends as he is dragged to the side, a drinking horn put to his mouth, and whole barrel of wine forcefully spilled onto the horn, forcing him to drink.

The torture goes on and on. Sansa allows herself to show an expression of worry, but her mind scrambles as she struggles with the injustice of the situation.

The old her would have let out an outburst, but she wrangles her emotions, turning back toward the sickly smiling king, her expression of concern directed at him.

"Your Grace, I mean no disrespect." She speaks softly. "But I believe it would be considered bad luck to kill a man on your name day."

"What kind of stupid peasant superstition--" He begins to complain, but is interrupted by the Hound, who had already took back his place at Joffrey's side.

"The girl is right." He says. "What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year."

Joffrey sighs in disappointment. "Take him away." He orders. "I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool."

The man is let go, and as he kneels on his fours, vomiting red liquid to the floor. Sansa turns again to Joffrey.

"He is a fool, you're so clever to see it." She smiles. "He'll make a much better fool than a knight, he doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death." She says.

Joffrey runs the idea through his head, she could see that while he felt compelled to refuse her out of principle, the thought of tormenting a man through a long stretch of time seemed much more appealing to his mind than simply killing him behind the scene.

So Joffrey turns to the fool. "Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos?" He asks. "From this day, you'll be my new fool!" He gleefully announces.

The man, disoriented yet quick to answer, thanks them.

"Thank you, your Grace." He bows. "And you, my lady, thank you."

And so they dragged him out.

Sansa found herself becoming proficient in these matters as time went on, especially once she saw with borrowed eyes the true state of the court, and how depraved the people here are.

Per example, through the eye of her pigeon, which she called Gallant, she saw Lady Stokeworth slip milk of the poppy in a particularly endowed woman as she caught Joffrey's eyes, the reason was that she kicked a rat, but that didn't matter to the woman.

She saw Lord Janos Slynt take pouches of gold from Meryn Trant, and in other occasions she would follow the so called knight as gold cloaks allowed him secret passage to the Street of Silk, what he did there was not of her knowledge.

Most peculiarly, she heard a conversation between Lord Petyr Baelish and Varys on the steps of the Iron Throne, discussing matters that she felt should not know.

She still didn't see Robb on her dream aside from that one time, but she took to spying on other's conversation, flying through the sky and simply following people around in Gallant's mind as a past time, there was little to do in the privacy of her chambers, and whatever outside contact she had were usually of this sort, which was worse.

Her ruminations are interrupted as she hears a voice.

"Beloved nephew!" The voice turns out to be one Tyrion Lannister, with a thin tall man with a wolfish face smile wearing black oiled ringmail to his side, followed by a gaggle of brutish and wild looking men with long beards and bushy eyebrows.

"We looked for you on the battle field!" Tyrion's armor seemed worn and muddied. "You were nowhere to be found!" He exclaims as he steps before the king.

"I've been here, ruling the kingdoms." Joffrey stutters.

Tyrion pours himself a cup of wine. "And what a fine job you've done." He smiles, turning to his niece. "Look at you!" He gives a soft kiss on the cheek. "You look more beautiful than ever!"

"And you!" He turns to Tommen. "You're going to be bigger than the Hound, but much better looking." He japes, pointing at Sandor. "This one doesn't like me." Adressing the man at his side.

"Can't imagine why." The man responds.

"We heard you were dead." Joffrey comments.

"I'm glad you're not dead." Myrcella says.

Tyrion smiles at her. "Me too, dear. Death is so boring." He turns to outward, to the sea. "Especially now with so much excitement in the world."

He then finally turns to Sansa, a look of sadness, and maddeningly, pity.

"My lady, I'm sorry for your loss."

"Her loss?" Joffrey stares back and forth between Sansa and the Imp. "Her father was a confessed traitor!"

"But still her father." Tyrion says. "Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father, you can sympathize."

Joffrey concedes his point, turning toward Sansa, waiting for her response.

She doesn't wait a second. "My father was a traitor. My mother and brother were traitors too." She quickly responds.

When news of Robb's victory in the battle of Oxcross reached the capital, Joffrey was livid, yet he knew that his own mother would stop him from punishing her, if only to save her own brother's life. Yet, he still looked for an excuse to do so, it is a different thing, after all, to gainsay the king when he is in the wrong, but when he is technically right, that's another matter entirely.

"I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."

"Of course you are." Tyrion says softly, but after a sip from his drink, all pretense of remorse is gone. "Well, enjoy your name day, your Grace." He saunters deeper into the Keep, with his retinue in lockstep. "I wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done."

"What work?" Joffrey asks the diminutive back of his uncle. "Why are you here?!"

But Tyrion ignores him.

Sansa has the same question on her mind, the only thing she could think of was to be on the Small Council, but the only available position was of the Hand, who is absent.

'I have to investigate.' She thinks.

"Your Grace, I am afraid I am exhausted by the blood and carnage, may I have my leave?"

Joffrey, his mood ruined, mindlessly waves her off.

She curtsies, and swiftly walks toward her quarters.

*-*-*

It is fortunate that her chambers were close by, as by the time she laid down, pushed her mind into her pigeon's, and fled it toward an open window in the Small Council meeting room, Tyrion wasn't there yet.

Gallant saw the Grandmaester Pycelle holding a golden cage with a pitch white raven. "This raven arrived from the Citadel this morning, your Grace." The aging maester addresses the queen. "The Conclave has met, considered the reports from maesters all over the Seven Kingdoms, and declared this great summer done… at last. The longest summer in living memory."

"The peasants say a long summer means an even longer winter." Varys comments.

Pycelle grunts. "A common superstition."

"We'll have enough wheat for five years of winter. If it lasts any longer… we have fewer peasants." Baelish comments.

Sansa thinks that that five year estimate was only considering the keep, even now, when her pigeon glides over the city, she could see men and women starving in the streets and denied sustenance.

"The city is drowning in refugees your Grace. Fleeing the war." Janos Slynt says. "We have nowhere to house them, and with winter coming, it'll only get worse."

"You command the city watch, do you not, Lord Slynt?" Cersei asks.

"I do, your Grace."

"And are you not a lord at my command?"

"I owe my title and lands to your generosity, your Grace."

"Then do your job. Shut the gates to the peasants, they belong in the field, not our capital."

Janos, chagrined, nods. "Yes, your Grace."

It was then that the sound of jolly whistling found its way to their ears, followed by steps that echoed through the halls.

Tyrion walks in the Small Council chamber, wearing his armor, yet alone.

"Don't get up for my sake!" The members of the council stare in confusion. 

Taking advantage of their shock, Tyrion walks to the queen and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheeks. "More ravishing than ever, big sister."

"War agrees with you." He compliments, much to her apparent annoyance. "Forgive the interruption, carry on." He says while sitting on a chair at the head of the table.

"What are you doing here?" Cersei asks.

"It's been a remarkable journey." The dwarf pours himself a cup of wine. "I pissed off the edge of the Wall. I slept in a sky cell. I fought with the hill tribes… So many adventures, so much to be thankful for." He stares at Lord Baelish, who in turn gives him a glare.

"What are you doing here?" Cersei voice is forceful. "This is the Small Council."

"Yes, well, I do believe the Hand of the King is welcome at all Small Councils meetings."

"Our father, is the Hand of the King."

"Yes, but in his absence…" He pulls out a letter and hands it to Varys, looking his sister in the eye with a smirk.

Varys opens the letter.

"Your father has named Lord Tyrion to serve as Hand in his stead while he fights-"

Cersei stands up and slams the table. "Out! All of you out!"

Like obedient little ducklings, all but the Queen and Tyrion stay.

"I would like to know how you tricked father into this."

Tyrion guffaws. "If I were capable of tricking father, I'd be emperor of the world by now." He says. "I'm confused, I thought he'd sent a letter, informing you of my arrival?"

Cersei purses her lips. "Not in this way, he did not."

Tyrion shrugs. "You brought this on yourself."

"I've done nothing!"

"Quite right." Tyrion responds. "You did nothing when your son called for Ned's Stark's head, now the entire north has risen up against us."

"I tried to stop it."

"Did you? You failed." He answers. "That bit of theater will haunt our family for a generation." He leans quizzically into the table. "And what's this I hear about you losing a sister? By the Young Wolf's hand itself!"

"Arya, little animal, she disappeared."

"Disappeared? What, in a puff of smoke?" He scoffs. "We had three Starks held hostage, you chopped one's head off and let the other escape! At this point, we might as well hang up our swords and let Robb Stark do unto us what he wishes!"

"Robb Stark is a child." Cersei laughs, but it sounds horridly fake.

"Who's won every battle he's fought, no, who's people have won every battle they fought, at his direction, nonetheless." He rebukes. "Ever since his coming south it has been but defeat for our forces, do you understand we're losing the war?"

"And what do you know about warfare?" She argues.

"Nothing." Tyrion admits. "But I know people, and I know that our enemies hate each other almost as much as they hate us."

Cersei contemplates for a while.

"Joffrey is King." She says.

"Joffrey is King." Tyrion agrees.

"You are here to advise him."

"I'm only here to advise him." He finishes. "And if the King listens to what I say, the King might just get his uncle Jaime back."

Sansa's still body hitches, Jaime's capture is what kept her safe!

"How?" Cersei echoes Sansa's question.

"You love your children, it's your one redeeming quality." He says. "Stark's love their children as well."

"Why don't you get back, deal with your emotions." Tyrion says. "After all, it must be hard for you… to be the disappointing child."

Sansa heeds his advice as she lets her mind retreat back to her own body.

Leaning upward from her bed, she gasps.

"Robb must know of this." She whispers.