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The raven arrives nearly a month before the arrival, and although it has dark wings, they're not dark words. Not for her. Sansa isn't sure what is happening at first, when her mother scowls and her father sighs heavily, but when she hears Jeyne Poole gossiping with the cooks later she can't hide the grin from spreading across her face.
The King is coming. Not just the King, but the Queen.
She's heard stories about the Red Keep, King Robert and Queen Cersei, who is supposed to be the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms and everything that Winterfell is not. Sansa spends extra hours with Septa Mordane to prepare herself as the picture of southron grace and poise. She cannot afford to make a mistake, not when Arya Horseface and Jon the Bastard will be present to embarrass the Stark name.
On the day of their arrival, Sansa selects her best cloak, light grey that highlights the blue of her eyes and makes sure her hair is perfect before joining her family standing in wait. She can’t quell the butterflies from her stomach and shrugs when she’s asked where Arya is—Sansa never knows, nor does she care, either.
Despite being older and more adept at needlework and other womanly tasks, Arya has always gained more favor, drawing comparisons to her father’s sister Lyanna, and this could very well be her moment to shine. Myrcella may be younger than her, but perhaps a good showing might allow her to go south to court.
It has to be better than Winterfell. She could find a gallant knight or a kind lord from one of the other houses—all the northron lords were older and their sons did not hold her interest. The South is her only hope.
Frankly, she hopes Arya never shows up at all.
However, the moment’s ruined when she rushes in wearing a helm of all things and peppering her with questions about Tyrion Lannister, the younger brother, who Arya only knows as the Imp.
“Will you shut up?” Sansa snaps finally, as the carriage opens and King Robert steps out, far fatter and less grand that she’d imagined. They kneel and follow all courtesies and she smiles politely when the King calls her the pretty one. If he says it, it must be true.
Finally the Queen shows herself and Sansa inhales sharply. Cersei is far more elegant and beautiful than she’d ever imagined, something out of a painting, really. Sansa stands taller and smiles politely, hoping that the Queen will echo her husband’s assessment. She’s waited her whole life for this moment and it needs to be perfect.
“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asks again, more insistent this time, and Sansa’s smile fades to a frown as Cersei turns away, the moment lost and with it, she’s sure her dreams of moving south are destroyed.
She’s no longer Sansa, the beautiful daughter of House Stark, no, to them she’s the sister of the Stark girl who could not wait to see a dwarf.
Arya always manages to ruin everything.
~*~
The rumors swell and change by the moment, but before long the auburn haired girl is certain that what everyone is saying is true—the King has offered her Joffrey. A golden prince on a horse and everything she’d ever dreamed of—it’s the perfect passage to her happily ever after.
All her father has to do is say yes. Not only to the proposal, but to the offer to serve as Hand of the King.
Her mother plaits her hair for the feast and she continues her line of attack, desperate for the change of scenery and courtly intrigue that being Joffrey’s betrothed will give her.
"And I'd be Queen some day. It's the only thing I’ve ever wanted,” Sansa responds to her mother’s hedging. It’s true—while she’d never actually imagined it would happen, she’s often dreamed about becoming queen of the realm, bearing little princes and princesses to a kind and handsome king.
Her mother says nothing in response and Sansa purses her lips into a frown. This is not a good sign, although the girl can hardly see a downside. Her father would be the second most powerful man in the seven kingdoms, and she’d grow up to be a queen, far away from Winterfell where there were many singers and tourneys.
It’d be like living in a fairytale every day.
Sighing as her mother leaves, she bides her time until the feast, Joffrey’s square jaw and piercing eyes, as well as Queen Cersei’s approval tying her stomach in knots.
~*~
"Hello, little dove,” Cersei begins as she stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other while trying to maintain good posture and act every bit the southron lady Joffrey deserves.
“You’re a beauty,” she continues, her blonde hair shining in the candlelight. Although she’s flattered, Sansa knows better than to speak unless she’s asked a question directly. It would be considered a slight otherwise. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen, your Grace,” Sansa replies demurely, uncertain of her words in the presence of the Queen—she’s never had a conversation with royalty before and this very well could be her mother-in-law some day.
“You're tall. Still growing?”
“I think so, your Grace,” Sansa answers—the seamstresses often complain about the rate that she outgrows her dresses and Old Nan often says that although she has Tully features, her height comes from the Starks. Then Nan goes on a tangent about women seven feet tall north of the wall and she tunes her out, politely of course—she’d never been one for Old Nan’s stories.
“And have you bled yet?”
The question shocks her and although she knows the answer, she’s not sure what she should say. If she lies, she might get to marry Joffrey sooner, if her father finally consents to the marriage, but it would prove a difficult lie to maintain. Finally, the red-haired girl looks at her mother, with blue eyes much like her own, and knows that there’s no answer except for the honest one.
Family. Duty. Honor. They may be her mother’s words, not the ominous warning of the Starks—Winter is Coming—but they’re still half hers, and Sansa must not dishonor their house by lying to the Queen.
“No, your Grace,” the words are awkward and unsure, not resembling the tone of a Queen but instead an uncertain girl and she cringes inwardly at the misstep. Her girlhood is nothing to be ashamed of and she will bleed in time, and then give Joffrey all the gilded princes and princesses he deserves.
“And your dress, did you make it?” Cersei continues and she nods in agreement. “Such talent. You must make something for me.”
The grin spills across her face before she has a chance to mask her true feelings and she nods once more, grateful for the Queen’s approval and with another look toward her mother, she returns to her seat, eager to tell Jeyne everything and steal glances at the Prince.
Her father has to say yes, he has to.
~*~
Arya’s made a mess of things at the first opportunity. She’d finally managed to get time alone with Joffrey only to stumble upon her little sister in the clearing playing swords like some common girl and not the noble sister of the future Queen of the realm. Joff was so gallant and brave and then Arya attacked him like a wild animal only for Nymeria to do the same when he threatened to gut her.
He’d just been shocked, it wasn’t a real threat. Her sweet prince wouldn’t do that and although he was mad at her in the moment, it was Arya’s fault—why else would Arya have fled?
That night Sansa cried herself to sleep. Her father thought it was because she was worried about her sister, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. If she did, he might cancel the marriage and it wasn’t Joffrey who’d started it—he was trying to defend Arya’s stupid honor.
What little she has, anyway.
So when the Queen comes in later and tells her that Arya’s been found, Sansa knows what she needs to do. It’s her most important hour and like the Queen says she needs to do this for Joffrey and a proper Queen always stands behind her King.
It’s an easy decision. She loves Joffrey and they’ll be married some day and it’s not a lie, not really, everything did happen quickly.
”I’ll gut you, you little cunt.” The words haunt her but she shrugs them off as she makes her way to the hall where an audience has been assembled. Joffrey would never do such a thing, he’d been perfect all day and if she just protected her sweet prince everything would return to normal.
Arya arrives and Sansa is called forth, Queen Cersei’s encouraging gaze meeting own. She spins her tale in I don’t knows and Arya jumps her, ripping her hair and screaming, savage and wild and Sansa knows that no one will believe the brunette now.
Joffrey sends her a look and she lets out a breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. Maybe, just maybe, he still loves her.
Lost in thought she doesn’t pay attention to the conversation as it ebbs and flows until she notices the way that Cersei turns her head toward the King and mentions the other wolf.
"He doesn't mean Lady, does he?” Sansa asks, panicked and frightened for the first time all evening, tears springing to her eyes and her father refuses to respond.
Not Lady, no, the wolf was sweet and mild mannered. All she did was follow Sansa around and lick her hand as she brushed her coat. A hundred times a day so that her fur shone in the sun.
“No, no Lady didn't bite anyone, she's good," Sansa grits out, sobbing in earnest as she imagines life without Lady in it and hoping that her tears will somehow move the King and Queen to change their minds. Or her father to act.
It wasn’t Lady’s fault. Nymeria was wild and savage. Not Lady.
Nymeria attacked the Prince, not Lady. Lady quite liked the Prince and would perk up when he walked by, in fact Lady liked everyone.
And yet, Lady was about to suffer for Nymeria’s behavior.
Much like how she suffered for Arya’s behavior. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t.
"Jory take the girls to their rooms. If it must be done, I will do it myself," her father says after some discussion and her stomach drops. Her own father wasn’t even on her side.
Unless, maybe he was trying to save Lady. Maybe.
"Is this some trick," Cersei asks and she holds her breath, waiting for her father to respond, praying to the Seven above that somehow her father plans to help Lady escape so she can find a nice male wolf and have pups all their own.
"The wolf is of the North, she deserves better than some butcher," her father says with certainty and her prayers go unanswered. It’s the same tone he uses when he’s about to execute some traitor or deserter from the Wall. While she’d been spared attending such things, she knows that voice.
She’ll never forgive him for this, never, Sansa vows as Jory takes the two of them away. When she’s Queen, her father will regret this, she’s sure, and until then she won’t speak to him. Because while it may be the Royal Family who gave the command, it’s her father who didn’t fight for Lady’s honor and her father who wielded the murder weapon.
Sansa hears the steel unsheathe itself from her bedroom window and the sharp cut that’s meant for Lady and her heart hardens a bit with the knowledge that her wolf is dead. She cries herself to sleep once more, a part of her died with Lady and she’s left only with Joffrey who may still blame her for the scars he’s sure to have on his hand.
That can’t happen, it can’t—Joffrey is the only thing left that she wants, and with it, a Kingdom. All seven of them.
She furrows her brow and vows to do better by her future husband and absolve herself of all things Stark. Her father already murdered her direwolf so the rest should be easy enough. Different hairstyles and courtesies and she’ll be the perfect picture of southron grace and Joffrey won’t have a choice but to love her again.
Who said happily ever after didn’t come with a price?