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XIV SANSA "a Lady's demise" ⚜️
Her father called for her on the third day. It was Vayon Poole knocking on her door to escort her to the audience hall. She left Lady by the door to her bedroom, guarding like the statues in Winterfell. She'd once hated those things, when they looked at almost half her height, but now she rather missed them. The direwolf whined and Sansa swallowed down her worry.
When they arrived at the audience chamber, Arya was already partway through the story. At the top of the room, sitting upon lord Darry's seat, the King perched with a watchful eye. He looked bored, Sansa thought, but the Queen stood beside him, commanding attention with her glaring emerald eyes. And Joffrey, her poor Joffrey. Her prince's arm was wrapped in a silken bandage, his face withered with a frown.
When she got to the part about her throwing Lion's Tooth into the river, Lord Renly let out a barking laugh, his teeth glimmering white behind his smile. Sansa watched him through lowered lashes and bleary eyes. The man was beautiful but she disliked the way he laughed and mocked.
"Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes," the King said. His voice was lazy though, as if he might have agreed with Lord Renly and wished only to squash an oncoming quarrel.
"My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself," Renly said, and with that same smile on his face, he bowed to Joffrey. "Perchance later you'll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river."
Joffrey told his own version of the story. Of Arya and her snarling wolf, of how Nymeria was set upon him to ravish the skin from his bones unprovoked, of how he'd only wanted to defend her sister's honour. Sansa struggled to watch him through tears. He was lying. Why was her prince lying?
"What in the seven hells am I supposed to make of this?" The King said when Joffrey finished, rising from his chair like a great bear. "He says one thing, she says another."
Sansa felt her father's eyes fall on her. She knew what was coming. With her hands fisted in the blue velvet of her skirts, she would be made to tell her own version of the events, the very side she had already spoken.
"They were not the only ones present," father said, beckoning her forward with a hand. "Sansa, come here. Tell us what happened."
The Queen's eyes bore into her. Sansa remembered the event- it had been hard to shake. In the days following, only surprising and intermittent company from Lucella Clegane and the contact of her skin to Lady's fur could calm her. But when she thought of it now, all she could think of was Joffrey's stern eyes and his bark of an order to leave him be. Nothing like the Prince she knew him to be. Part of her wanted to blame Arya. It was always her sister's fault. She had escaped meeting with the Queen to instead play swords with the Butcher's boy, of course. But Sansa feared what the truth may be. That Joff was angry at her.
