No Relief In Open Eyes
Sansa was in a wonderful mood at the morning meal. She had arisen early that morn - at earliest birdcall - in order to properly prepare. Lacing her lips with lemon to make them a juicy red, and pinching her cheeks to attain a healthy glow. She had employed many of the little tricks her mother had taught her. After all, she had to make a flawless first impression. After dressing in her finest green gown with embroidered red flowers on the sleeves (red was the colour of the Royal family, after all) she had descended to the Great Hall to break her fast.
Prince Joffrey and the rest of the Baratheon’s had not come down to dine. They were no doubt still sleeping after their long and arduous journey. The welcoming feast the night before had gone on for quite some time. Sansa knew she would feel tired too, if she wasn't so excited. She was not saddened by the lacking presence of her betrothed, however, as she knew that he would appear eventually. Perhaps they could share a brief conversation, Sansa thought. He may even kiss her upon the hand, if the Gods be good - which Sansa knew they were. The birds had sung especially sweetly that morning when Sansa had awoken. Almost as if in celebration of the royal family coming to Winterfell. As if heralding the blooming romance between herself and His Highness.
Sitting down at the family dining table, she could see their future wedding ceremony so clearly in her head. His Majesty would wear a dashing red that would bring out the blue of his eyes. He would look so gallant in red, gold and white. Sansa's wedding dress would be red, gold and white also - the colours of her new House. The ceremony would take place in the Great Sept at King's Landing. Hundreds of Lords and Ladies would look on as Sansa and Joffrey would swear their love before the Seven. She would be made his in front of the whole world - his wife and his Queen. Sansa Baratheon. Sansa Baratheon. Sansa Baratheon. King Joffrey Baratheon and his Queen Sansa Baratheon. Nibbling on a piece of toasted bread, her heart trembled with happiness. She was so at peace imagining her future bliss before she felt something hard splatter onto the side of her face. Shocked silent, she could hear Arya laughing evilly from across the table as a few hearty chuckles from her brothers joined in. The porridge had already begun to harden and go cold. It had splattered not only onto her hair, but onto her beautiful emerald gown.
After yelling at Arya - trying not to cry from the anguish and unfairness of it all - she had retreated to her room to bathe and change. She did not mind bathing. Arya hated it because she was a dirty and wild thing. Sansa, on the other hand, loved the feeling of the warm water cleansing her skin. The natural springs Winterfell was built on top of made the water the perfect temperature. Just hot enough to warm the bones. In the North, on very special occasions, it was tradition to bathe with half a cup of milk, a swirl of honey, and a stick of cinnamon. Sansa would have much preferred two cups of milk, one cup of honey, and a bushel of cinnamon. But Father was ridiculously frugal. He probably thought she was spoilt. But cows and goats would make more milk, and bees would make more honey. Whereas Sansa could only make one impression on her beloved, the Prince. It was almost as if her father did not understand the importance of true love. But Sansa was a good girl, and always made do with what she had.
Getting out of the copper bathing tub and towelling dry, she put on her second-best dress. A linen gown in a pale cornflower blue. Then, taking a seat at her dressing table, she began the beautification process all over again. Getting a slice of lemon from the finger bowl on her dresser, she brushed it upon her lips. Her nose crinkled at the tart taste. She had attained a natural blush after her warm bath, but she pinched her cheeks just the same. Then, picking up her favourite comb - the one engraved with a scene of horses running through the forest - she combed and combed her hair until the deep auburn shone as brightly as a copper penny. She would have much preferred her hair to be golden, like the pretty maidens in songs. But looking at herself in the mirror, Sansa decided that she had done a pretty good job. Especially as she had only been assaulted with hot porridge not one hour past.
As she was staring at her reflection, a wet nose nuzzled her hand. Sansa had forgotten that her direwolf had been waiting for her. Lady was always so gentle and quiet. The perfect companion.
“Come on, Lady. Let’s go for a walk.”
Winterfell had never been so busy. It was wonderful. In all her life, Sansa had never seen so many people. Knights and soldiers and ladies in gowns. It was extremely exciting. Yet people seemed to be giving her a wide berth. At first she thought the droves of people were staring at her. But she reminded herself that most Southerners would have never laid eyes on a direwolf before. Lady was the smallest of her pack and only just past pup-hood, yet she was already a little larger than the average hound. They were staring at gentle Lady, that was all. Stopping for a moment, Sansa knelt down and scratched Lady behind the ears. Her warm yellow eyes watched a few people pass by before settling on Sansa.
It was odd how, at times, Sansa could swear she knew what Lady was thinking of. Like how at that moment, an image of rolling in freshly cut grass with Ghost flashed in her mind. It was so vivid. All the direwolves were fond of one another - they were family, after all - yet Ghost was such a lonesome creature. He was much like Jon in that respect. But Ghost did seem to have a soft spot for Lady, nuzzling up against her at family meals and sleeping by her when he got the chance. And if what Sansa had just seen wasn't simply an overactive imagination, Lady liked Ghost too.
Standing up, Sansa took a moment to gain her bearings. Looking around, she grinned at the bustling nature of everyone. There were people everywhere - rushing by in fancy clothes. Some were carrying beautiful cloth or swords or foreign-smelling delights. As Sansa led Lady through another opening in the woods, she saw three Southern ladies sitting in a circle. They were huddled very close near a burgundy caravan, gossiping and plaiting each others hair. How desperately Sansa wanted to be one of them. They styled each others' hair so intricately it looked like woven silk. And they were all so perfectly blonde it made the red locks framing her face look unkempt and dirty in comparison. They all looked at her as she began to pass, no doubt judging her scruffy appearance. Her pale-blue dress looked like a potato sack next to their heavily embroidered silk gowns. Yet they smiled at her. Sweet, gentle smiles. Sansa was captivated by their shiny hair, their long eyelashes, their glossy lips…oh, how she wanted them.
A returning smile began to shyly tug at the corners of Sansa’s lips, when a sudden form appeared in front of her. She jumped a little at the shock. Recognising chainmail underneath a leather vest, and a sword swinging from his side, Sansa realised that she had bumped into a grisly older knight. And he was looking at her quite severely. Even though he must not have been a great knight (as he was so old and haggard looking) a true lady never forgets her manners.
“Pardon me, Sir —” her attempt at a remorseful smile did nothing to soften the old man’s irritated glare.
“— I wasn’t looking where I was going,” her face felt warm as she remembered the women not a few yards away who must be watching the exchange, “I didn’t mean to, I’m terribly sorry.“
Yet, still, she was met with complete silence. The man’s gaze was unnerving, and she did not understand why he would not respond.
A hand came upon her shoulder and shocked her out of her thoughts. Swinging around, Sansa looked up into the face of another knight. He was very tall, which is a quality most knights must possess in order to be handsome and heroic and strong. But as his head blocked out the sun, Sansa realised he was not handsome at all. The right side of his face was burned so terribly that Sansa began to feel a touch off colour. The injury must have been old, for it was quite a light pink. Yet it looked like the man’s face had been made of wax and held too close to an open flame. Mangled and shiny and horrible. Not like the faces of knights Sansa had read about. No, this man was no proper knight, Sansa was sure of it.
“Do I frighten you so much, girl?” the scarred-knight asked, “Or is it him there that’s making you shake?” he asked, nodding towards the silent-knight.
Sansa did not answer.
“He frightens me too, look at that face!”
The disfigured-knight smirked at the aged-knight. The older man looked as if he were about to burst with ire. Yet, still, he did not speak a sound. Perhaps Sansa had not been polite enough. After all, colliding with and staring at an elderly knight was not refined at all. Sansa realised how truly offensive she must have been.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, Sir,” Sansa said gently, bowing her head.
Still, the man said nothing - choosing instead to stalk back up the road, heading in the direction of one of the Baratheon encampments.
Sansa looked back at the tall-knight.
“Why won’t he speak to me?”
“He hasn’t been very talkative these last twenty years. Since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers.”
Shocked, Sansa’s mouth fell open. No true lady would have let their mouths hang in such a manner. It made the face look unseemly. But Sansa was young, and what the knight had just told her was…it was horrible. Truly horrible. A tongue ripped out with boiling hot pincers. Her skin began to crawl, and she began to feel cold. But all thoughts of the ghastly Mad King and horrid punishments flew from her mind as quickly as they had come as she saw her beloved stride up beside her. His hair glinted in the sun like gold. His eyes shone a brilliant blue and they were looking right at her as he granted her a most dashing smile.
“Speaks damn well with his sword though. His name’s Sir Ilyn Payne, also known as The King’s Justice," Sir Joffrey said wisely.
The King’s Justice? Sansa had never heard that term before. But it must be a noble profession if it had anything to do with her sweet and genteel Joffrey.
“The Royal Executioner," Prince Joffrey explained.
A door opened in her mind, and images came barging through. Thoughts of Mad Kings and punishments and poverty and pain flooded into her imagination. They pierced through the warm day surrounding her, making her feel cold again.
“What is it, sweet lady?” Prince Joffrey asked her.
“Does The Hound frighten you? Away with you, dog. You’re scaring my lady.”
His lady. The disturbing thoughts stopped and faded into the mist. The sun shone brighter than ever before, and she could feel her face warm. His eyes - the colour of sapphires - were focusing on her, only her. He had called her his lady. And he had sidled up closer to her.
“I don’t like to see you upset,” he said softly, a kind and intimate smile brightening his flawless features. He cupped her chin gently, and she nearly swooned. And then he had asked her to walk with him.
The walk was going absolutely perfectly.
His Highness Prince Joffrey spoke of his home, mainly - describing in detail the luxuriousness of the Red Keep. It sounded grand, unlike anything she had ever seen before. He had offered Sansa numerous sips of wine as he spoke of how the small folk loved his family, the power he would have as king, and how much he loved animals. He had even complimented her hair, which made Sansa positively beam with delight. The day was warm, yet not too unbearable. A beautiful breeze was coming off the river they were strolling by. She had read by a river just like it as a child, and she could remember watching Robb and Jon as they playfully sparred with sticks by it. Swallows gracefully swooped and played amongst the trees surrounding Sansa and Joffrey. It was all so perfect that she wanted to squeal. But, of course, she didn’t, as that would be unladylike around her prince.
Joffrey took another sip from his wineskin and offered her some more.
“I don’t think I would be allowed any more - Father only lets us have one cup at feasts,” she murmured.
“My princess can drink as much as she wants,” he replied.
There it was again. His princess. She was his, as he was hers. And not-soon-enough it would be sealed until death with a kiss. She would bear his children, and they would be called Joffrey II, Harlon, Edwynn, Lyonel, and Steffon Baratheon. Five boys, all as blonde, blue-eyed, and handsome as their father. Sansa slowly took the wineskin from the prince…from her prince…and took another sip. He smiled at her and she could see as clear as dawn how perfect he would look on their wedding day. He would never become fat and old like his father. He was much more like his beautiful mother - elegant and refined. Oh how Sansa wished that they could marry right then and there, in the perfect midday sun next to the riverbank. But then the sounds of fighting came from over the small rise ahead of them, and Sansa startled at the aggressive interference.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe with me,” Joffrey said, grabbing Sansa by the hand and walking on. His hands were as soft as hers, not rough and calloused like her father’s. Of course she was safe with her prince. He was strong and kind. He would let nothing harm her.
When they had discovered that the sounds had been Arya and the butcher-boy play-fighting with sticks and little swords, Sansa was not surprised. Of course Arya was making a ferocious fool out of herself. Disappointment and anger engulfed her. Honestly, it was like no-one in her family understood the importance of first impressions.
Prince Joffrey began to berate them a little. Sansa sighed. Why couldn’t Arya be a normal girl and want normal girly things? She didn’t even look like she cared about embarrassing Sansa in front of the prince. She stood there looking how she always looked - angry. Averting her eyes from her sister, Sansa stared at the fat butcher boy as his face began to contort horribly. It wasn’t nice to watch, but her prince was teaching the silly little butcher boy a lesson. A butcher boy could never be a knight, just as girls could never be knights. There were rules, that was all - and her beloved knew that too. Yet she suddenly felt as if things were spiralling out of control. Everything was happening so quickly, until Joffrey had kicked the boy down into a kneeling position and his sword was at the butcher boy's neck. The sharp silver began to dig deeper, droplets of blood slowly running down the boy’s thick neck as his face began to look more and more familiar…
“NO,” Sansa shrieked, “my sweet prince, please, I beg of you - do not harm him!”
The butcher boy had - in front of her very own eyes - shifted forms. She did not know how, or why, but he had looked at her with the same eyes as her father. His body then had morphed around him until the butcher boy was gone, and in his place her father stared at her, helplessly. Kneeling in a field, in the middle of nowhere, with Joffrey’s sword cutting at his neck.
Joffrey snorted.
“This is what happens to traitors. This is the same dirty blood that runs in your veins. This, darling Sansa, is what happens to people who think they can fool me.”
And with a smile, he raised the sword so high that for one moment it shone as if it were made of pure sunlight… and he drove it down upon her father’s neck.