Clean Hands

"Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean."

― A Storm of Swords, George R. R. Martin

Sansa

Sansa dreamt of dragons. She dreamt of dragons hatching. When she woke in the morning she searched the skies for a comet. Time was moving forward and she felt the weight of it. She felt it in her skin, in her hair, and in the pit of her stomach. She felt the sinking feeling bury itself deep within her belly as her eyes searched the morning sky and she exhaled a deep breath as she watched the red comet streak across the grey blue sky above the castle walls. The dragons had hatched. She was convinced that she could feel something in the air. There was magic in the air. Magic. She could feel it as she padded softly around her room in her slippers, and as she studied her face in the mirror during her morning routines. She could feel it as she sat by the fire. There was something different in the air. As she prepared for the celebrations of the day, she prepared herself for a reckoning of some sort. The tourney of the Hand had been looming on the horizon for what seemed like ages. The King was still alive. But she knew it would not be for long. Joffrey's name day loomed large in her thoughts too. She did everything that she could to stay in his good graces. She was kind. She was courteous. She deferred to him. She detested him. She would spend more time with him today than she cared to. She would be seated beside him at the high table for the feast. Her father had secured seats for her, Arya, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Pool to watch the tournament. He would not be seated with them. He would be seated with the King. She was relieved at this. She would be surrounded by those loyal to her house during the tournament. But the feast, the feast was another story.

As the betrothed of the crowned Prince, she would be seated with the royal family during the feast. As the Queen had insidiously padded every possible position in court with some Lannister or other, she would be surrounded by lions. The lions were restless. The stags were losing ground. Stannis had retreated to Dragonstone. Renly Baratheon had retreated to Storm's End. The King had been confined to his chambers more lately. He had taken ill. Sansa suspected, but had no proof, that he was being slowly poisoned. Cersei wanted her son on the throne. King Robert made her miserable. The King;s physical condition had deteriorated over the course of several moons. Sansa had successfully convinced her father to send Littlefinger on a diplomatic mission to the Vale to broker a marriage between Young Robin Arryn and Shireen Baratheon. In his stead, Tyrion Lannister was to be Master of Coin. But Tyrion Lannister had not arrived. He had still not yet arrived in the capitol. Sansa was beginning to worry.

Sansa sat upon a plush cushioned chair, softly petting Lady's fur and waiting. Soon her maidservant and ladies maids would be at the door. She felt Lady's ear's shift slightly beneath her fingertips.

"Do you hear something girl?" She said in a sing-song voice. Lady stared up at her lovingly. Yes. She had heard something. There was a flurry of activity throughout the caste corridors. Sansa could hear it too now. There were footsteps outside her door. She heard several voices chattering behind the thick wooden door. There was a knock.

"Yes," she said.

"We're here to prepare you for the tourney m'lady."

"Yes. Come in." she said.

Her room became a flurry of activity as well. The four serving girls filled the tub high with steaming rose scented water. They scrubbed Sansa's skin until she was as fresh and pink as a newborn babe. They trimmed her nails. They curled and brushed her auburn hair until it shone coppery in the sunlight. They pulled out a marbled platter filled with perfumes for her to choose from. She chose a fragrance with a hint of lemon, something bright, and sunny.

Her father had ordered a new dress made for her, with her specifications. The seamstress came and dressed her in her new finery. The gown was silver and white with long and full skirts and a bodice that was fitted to her frame, but not so tight that she couldn't comfortably breathe. She slipped her feet into the soft, grey leather slippers that she had chosen, and when she was finally done, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

The seamstress beamed behind her. "You look lovely m'lady."

She did.

As she walked through the corridor, she held her head high, and Lady padded softly beside her.

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney in a litter trimmed with yellow silks. They rode out to the city walls, and she saw outstretched ahead of them a hundred raised pavilions. The small folks had come out in droves to watch the games. The air was charged and alive. This was the splendor and majesty that Sansa had always dreamed of as a girl. The knights paraded in their shining armor, the shouting of the crowd was loud and boisterous, and the banners flapped in the wind. Overhead, Sansa saw the comet continuing its trail across the sky in a blaze of red and orange. Sansa said a silent prayer as she looked into the sky above. I can change this. She told herself. The King was still alive. Her father was still alive. She was still safe. Lady was safe in the kennels. Arya was by her side. She absently reached out and smoothed her sister's hair away from her face. Arya looked at her surprised, but Sansa continued to look out into the crowd. She scanned the faces in the crowd, and she found her place and began to settle in for the day's events. Sansa was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, and Arya sat to Septa Mordane's left. Arya didn't much care about the tourney. But Sansa wanted to keep her close.

Across the pavilion, she saw her betrothed, Joffrey. He was wearing a crimson doublet, embroidered with lions and a cloth of gold with a high cape that framed his face. His mouth looked cruel. His eyes were grim and cold and his expression was haughty and vain. He surveyed the small folks below the raised dais with a look of disgust. I won't marry him. I won't. Sansa thought. The crowd was murmuring excitedly as the men from the lists paraded by on magnificent coursers and stallions. The Hound stood beside the Prince, a detached expression on his scarred face. He was clothed in a plain brown doublet, with a green mantle, and his burned face looked angry in the sunlight. Behind them stood two knights of the Kingsguard, and further behind them, the King himself. He looked wan, and grey skinned. But he seated himself next to his Queen, and called for wine.

Jaime Lannister took the field in a suit of golden armor donned with a lion-headed gilded helm, with a golden sword in hand, the snow white cloak of the King's Guard billowing behind him. Sansa watched as the heroes rode forward each more elaborately adorned than the last. There were hedge knights, and free riders too, and young untested squires. Jeyne tittered next to her as she watched Ser Beric Dondarion rush forward with his flaming sword. All of this had been marvelous to her the first time that she had seen it. She had thought the men of Winterfell to be ill fitted and clothed in rags by comparison. Jory was clothed simply. He wore a dull blue-grey plate armour without any ornament, and around his shoulders his thin, grey cloak hung sad and threadbare.

The jousting went on for what seemed like ages. Jeyne and Arya cried out as the warhorses pounded down the lists. Sansa was made of stronger stuff. Jeyne covered her eyes like a frightened child whenever a man fell. But Sansa sat straight, her spine like dragonsteel. She watched calculatingly. Septa Mordane noted her composure. The Clegane brothers seemed unstoppable and ferocious. Ser Gregor killed a man, a young knight from the Vale. He fell dead and bloody at Sansa's feet. She looked down at his face. Her eyes studied the eyes of the dying knight as he fell before her. She saw the light leave his eyes. Septa Mordane clutched her hand. But she simply watched. Beside her Jeyne wept uncontrollably. The Septa took her away, off to the side to help her regain her composure. Sansa knew that she should be crying too. But she could not. She had seen too much. She watched as a small boy came to shovel dirt on the spot where the knight had fallen, to cover up the blood. It would be as if he never existed. It would be as if it had never happened.

The tournament continued. The King drank, and laughed, and for a moment, almost seemed like his old self. The Queen soon tired of the proceedings, and she and her ladies in waiting made their way back to the Red Keep. Ser Loras was performing admirably in the tourney. He had unhorsed several knights over the course of the day. He wore an intricately enameled armor covered in roses, and he looked like a song that had come to life. As he rode past Sansa, he presented her with a single red rose. Though he smiled at her, she noticed that his eyes were not on her, but on the person who sat behind her, a young man with dark hair, and smiling green eyes that reminded her of the King's brother, Lord Renly. The rumors were true. She mused. She took the rose and inhaled the fragrance deeply, smiling down at him. His hair was a mass of brown curls, and his eyes, framed by lush lashes. He was exquisite. She remembered how enamored she had been of him that first time at the tourney.

Joffrey watched the exchange between them from across the pavilion. She could see a flash in his eyes as he whispered something to the Hound. The Knight of Flowers rode off, and as she looked up again, she watched Joffrey's face for signs of anger. She watched as he eyed the Knight of Flowers with barely veiled contempt. Her own father sat next to the King, and he watched the Prince too. As Sansa and Ned looked to each other, their eyes met. Both watched as Joffrey left the royal box, the Hound following close behind him. As Sansa watched them leave, Joffrey looked back, catching her eye, and she flashed him her most glittering smile. The look that he returned chilled her blood. She had seen his eyes look like that before. She had been standing at the Sept of Baelor. She had begged for mercy. She would not beg again.