"Once you can have children, I'll make you pregnant," Joffrey said as he walked with her across the training yard. "If the first one is an idiot, I'll cut off your head immediately and find a clever wife. When will you be able to have children?"
He had shamed her so much, Sansa couldn't look him in the eye. "Septa Mordane said that... most noble ladies mature at twelve or thirteen."
Joffrey nodded. "This way." He led her through the Red Keep's City Gate tower to the stairs leading to the ramparts.
Sansa pulled away from him sharply, trembling uncontrollably, suddenly understanding where they were going. "No," she gasped, her voice panicked. "Please, no, don't take me there, I beg you..."
Joffrey pursed his lips. "I want you to see what happens to traitors!"
Sansa shook her head frantically. "No, I don't want to see."
"I can have Ser Meryn drag you up," he said. "You won't like it. You'd better just do as you're told." Joffrey reached for her, and Sansa recoiled, bumping into The Hound.
"Little bird, be good." Sandor Clegane said, pushing her back towards the King. The corner of his burned face twitched for a moment, and Sansa could almost hear the words he didn't speak: He'll get you up there no matter what, so just do as he wants.
She forced herself to take King Joffrey's arm. Climbing the stairs was a nightmare, every step a struggle, as difficult as pulling her feet out of knee-deep mud. The stairs seemed endless, thousands upon thousands of steps, and boundless terror awaited her on the walls at the top.
From the ramparts atop the City Gate tower, the whole world lay spread out below. Sansa could see the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's Hill, where her father had been executed. At the other end of the Street of the Silent Sisters, stood the charred ruins of the Dragonpit. To the west, the red sunset was half-obscured by the Gods' Gate. Behind her was the vast Salt Sea. To the south were the Fish Market, the docks, and the mighty, surging Blackwater River, and to the north...
She looked north, seeing the city, streets, alleys, hills... more streets and alleys, and the City Walls in the distance. But she knew that beyond this worldly hustle and bustle were open fields, farmland, and forests, and further, further, further north, was Winterfell, was home.
"What are you looking at?" Joffrey said. "I want you to look at this, here."
A thick stone parapet surrounded the outer rampart, reaching up to Sansa's chin, with a merlon for archers every five feet. The heads were located between the merlons on top of the City Walls, impaled on the tips of iron spears, facing the city. Sansa had noticed them the moment she stepped onto the wall, but the river view, the bustling streets, and the lingering sunset were so beautiful. He can force me to look, she told herself, but I can choose not to see.
"This one is your father," he said. "This one here. Hound, turn the head around for her to see."
Sandor Clegane reached into the air and turned the head. The severed head had been dipped in pitch so it would last longer. Sansa looked at her father's head calmly, showing no emotion. This doesn't look like Lord Eddard, she thought. It doesn't look real. "How long do you wish me to look, Your Majesty?"
Joffrey seemed greatly disappointed. "Do you want to see the other heads?" There was a long row on the rampart.
"If it pleases Your Majesty."
So Joffrey led her along the walkway, past a dozen heads, and two empty spears. "These two are specially reserved for my Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly," he explained. The others had been dead much longer than her father, and their heads had been on the spear tips much longer. Although they had been soaked in pitch, most were difficult to recognize. The King pointed to one of them and said, "This one is your Septa." But Sansa couldn't even tell it was a woman's head. The head's jaw was completely rotted away, and birds had eaten one ear and half of the cheek.
Sansa had wondered what had happened to Septa Mordane before, but now, perhaps, she had known all along. "Why did you kill her?" she asked. "She was just a devout..."
"She was a traitor." Joffrey looked unhappy; she seemed to have annoyed him. "You haven't decided what to give me for my Naming Day gift. How about I give you one instead? What do you think?"
"If it pleases you, my lord," Sansa said.
As soon as he smiled, she knew he was mocking her. "Your brother is also a traitor, you know that, right?" He turned Septa Mordane's head back. "I remember seeing your brother that time we went to Winterfell. My Hound called him the lordling who played with wooden swords, didn't you, good Hound?"
"Did I say that?" The Hound replied. "I don't remember."
Joffrey shrugged irritably. "Your brother defeated my Uncle Jaime. Mother said he only succeeded through trickery and deceit. When she received the news, she immediately cried. Women are weak creatures, even she is no exception, although she always pretends to be strong. She said we must stay in King's Landing in case my two uncles attack, but I don't care. After my Naming Day feast, I will raise an army and kill your brother with my own hands. Sansa Stark, this is the gift I will give you, your brother's head."
A sudden surge of wild thought rushed through her mind, and she heard herself say, "Perhaps my brother will give me your head."
Joffrey frowned. "You are not to joke about me like that. A good wife must never joke about her husband. Ser Meryn, teach her a lesson."
This time when the knight hit her, he held her chin tightly with one hand. He hit her twice, first on the left, then harder on the right. Her lip was completely split, and blood flowed down to her chin, mixing with salty tears.
"Don't cry all the time," Joffrey told her. "You're prettier when you smile."
Sansa forced a smile, terrified that if she didn't, he would order Ser Meryn to hit her again. Unfortunately, her smile was useless. The King shook his head in disgust. "Wipe the blood off, you look hideous like that."
The outer parapet was as high as her chin, but the inner walkway had no cover, a good seventy or eighty feet above the courtyard below. One strong push is all it takes, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, grinning with his worm-like lips. You can do it, she told herself, you can do it, do it. Even if she died with him, it didn't matter, not at all.
"Come here, little bird." Sandor Clegane knelt in front of her, blocking her from Joffrey. He gently wiped the blood flowing from her split lip, his movements surprisingly gentle, hard to associate with the large man before her.
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