Notes: As per usual, I own nothing except the mistakes.

Come into my parlor

This has got to be the Halloween from hell, Sansa thinks, even as the strangeness of that sentence strikes her over the head like a meat cleaver. Mostly like a cheap, plastic one like those she has been seeing adorning the heads of half the people in this stupid party but still. The analogy stands, as it's the best one she can come up with at present.

Seriously though, what are the odds that not one, not two, but three of the world's shittiest, most sorry excuses for mankind had ended up here, all holed up together in the middle of nowhere, with nothing better to do than to torment her very existence?

And yes, she´s painfully aware that the fact she has actually dated all three of them at some point in her life – some very deep, very low point in her life – doesn't exactly paint her in the brightest of colors.

Sansa has always adored Halloween. Not so much the gruesome horror – although she likes a good scary movie and is not about to scream her lungs out if she happens to see a spider or a bat, no, that's much more Robb's thing – but mostly the part about dressing up. It had always been her favorite, ever since she was a little girl and her mother would make her the most amazing princess dresses.

Assuredly, her costumes have certainly graduated from ankle length ballroom gowns into decidedly slinkier, sexier outfits, but the feeling of slipping into someone else's skin and be a completely different person for a little while is still pretty much the same. She's still convinced the world lost its most astonishing actress the day real life and bills to pay pushed her into a very exciting career as an administrative assistant.

And so, as it stands to reason, the annual Halloween bash hosted by the Targaryens was evidently a no-miss. Even if this year they had decided to host the damn thing at Harrenhal.

As choices go, it was certainly appropriate. The ancient mansion had been abandoned for decades before Rhaegar Targaryen had bought it, determined to bring it back to its previous glory. It's just that its previous glory included a series of skin prickling stories, ranging from the serial killer who lured his victims inside its cavernous halls to the satanic cults who performed blood sacrifices on its lush gardens.

Of course, no one knew for sure if any of those stories were true. And the fact that it was widely said that the mansion was truly and well haunted by the souls of all those who had perished there, well… that just made it perfect for this whole shindig. Except for the fact it was totally out of the way and it had taken her and Robb ages to get there.

The party had already been in full swing by the time they had gotten there, which in true Targaryen fashion meant that copious amounts of alcohol were being consumed, half the people were already barely coherent, and the music was blaring to the point it would most likely kill the other half soon enough.

Her brother had disappeared almost as soon as they had walked through the door, making a beeline for the drinks or the pretty girl currently pouring them. Sansa didn't really care which because, exactly twenty seconds later, she had spotted him. Even worse, he had spotted her right back.

Enter asshole number one.

Joffrey Baratheon had been her golden prince during her teenager years. She was fifteen when they had first met and she had been instantly in love. He was the jock to her princess, the Romeo to her Juliet, and a whole bunch of other bullshit she had waxed poetics about at the height of her infatuation.

Unfortunately, as she had rather painfully learned soon after, Joffrey was anything but.

He made his way towards her with a smirk on his lips and stopped right in front of her, blocking any chance of escape. Sansa bristled at his nerve.

"Sansa." His eyes gave her a once over before settling on her face. It was his trade mark during their relationship, the way he would lock eyes with her, forcing her to cast hers down. "How are you?"

She kept her eyes trained on his face as she heard her mother's lilting voice in her head. A lady's armor is her courtesy. She pictured her aunt Lysa, the poised way she had stood when her husband had been arrested for molesting a child, the way she had maintained her composure even when he had gone insane during his trial, screaming about the voices inside his cell telling him all about the horrible ways he was going to die.

(Sansa hadn't felt pity then – she could still recall the way he liked to kiss her when greeting her, always touching her face or her lower back, his hands wandering over places they had no business wandering over. Petyr Baelish was never inappropriate enough to warrant saying anything to anyone but it was certainly more than enough to make her skin crawl.)

So yes, she comes from a long line of strong women. Strong, polite women, who know how to keep their cool in the face of utter sleaze bags. And Sansa Stark is certainly not one to disappoint so, when her eyes finally moved from Joffrey's smug face to give him a rather pointed once over before saying, "Who the fuck are you supposed to be?" in a very snickery tone, she felt rather proud of herself.

She felt even better when he spluttered, drops from his drink landing on his black doublet. Yes, she's not fifteen anymore and it's high time he learned that.

"I'm Aegon the Conqueror. You would know that if you weren't so stupid."

She raised an eyebrow, cocking her head to the side in mock disbelief. "Isn't that kinda tacky? Usurping the ancestors of the family who's hosting the party?"

Joffrey narrowed his eyes in a move that used to make him look dark and mysterious back in the day but right now, it just made him look dangerous. Still, she repeated to herself, I'm not fifteen anymore you prick.

Her eyes wandered across the room, not-so-secretly plotting ways to escape, until they suddenly locked with a par of stormy grey, lurking in the back. Jon Snow. No, Jon Targaryen now. Keep up with the times.

Robb's best friend since the first day of school and good boy extraordinaire, Jon had been a permanent fixture in the Stark household ever since. He had been raised by his single mother, Lyanna Snow having decided she wanted nothing to do with the boy's father after having discovered he suffered from a permanent and very severe case of marriage-with-children.

Lyanna had died when Jon was in his teens and he had been sent to live with his estranged father. Rhaegar's wife hadn't exactly been too thrilled to discover her husband's indiscretions but Elia Martell was not one to punish the child for his father's crimes, and had instead turned the brunt of her anger towards her husband. It was a point of constant amusement amongst the highborn ladies of the city how Rhaegar had gone from having an affair with a woman who borne him a bastard to becoming a potential contender in the husband-of-the-year award.

Jon was staring at her with a concerned look on his handsome face and even though the music was too loud and they were too far away, she could almost hear his teeth grinding from how tightly his jaw was clenched. He gave a slight nod towards Joffrey, his body poised like a panther ready to pounce and she knew he was about to come over and put a stop to whatever the fuck this was.

Once again for the people in the back. I'm not fucking fifteen anymore. She gave him a slight shake of her head and saw his face furrow. He looked completely unconvinced by this turn of events but, to his credit, had stayed put.

Sansa took a dainty sip of her drink, her eyes still training about the milling people, before she paused. The drink tasted… funny. It wasn't unpleasant, no. Just… different from what she'd expected. Her heart raced as she panicked for a second. Had Joffrey slipped something into her glass?

Just as quickly as that thought entered her head, she chased it out. That wasn't possible, Margaery had given her the drink before she had even stepped through the massive oak doors and she hadn't let go of it since. Joffrey was a lot of things but smooth wasn't one of them; there was no way he could have done something while she was still clutching the glass to her chest.

Very carefully Sansa took another sip. It tasted fine. It wasn't what she had been expecting, the taste far richer and smoother than what she was normally used to drink, but then again she wasn't expecting the Targaryens to serve cheap liquor at one of their parties. She seriously doubted they even knew where to buy cheap… anything, for that matter.

It was probably just the company that had soured her taste buds.

Joffrey was still talking, about the party and the Targaryens and stupid cunts who got invited just so they could spread their legs to them later on, and Sansa was quite frankly fed up with it. "You know what? Go bother someone else for a change." She started to turn away, ready to bask in her victory and enjoy the evening.

"Don't you dare walk away from me bitch." His voice was low and hissing and Sansa startled, although not at the venom dripping from it. She dropped her eyes to her wrist and then to his hands, furiously clenched at his sides. Fifteen years ago, those hands would have been wrapped around her wrists, gripping them so tightly she would have worn the marks for weeks to follow.

His face was red and clammy and she could see sweat gathering on his forehead as she looked back into his eyes. "Not so though now that you don't have your friends here to back you up, are you?"

She didn't wait for his answer. Sidestepping him, she quickly made her way into the throngs of people milling about, putting as much distance between herself and Joffrey as she could.

The music was getting even louder as she approached the dance floor. The lights were almost blinding, flashing in an orgy of red, blues and greens, and she could feel the thumping beat against her ribcage as Loras Tyrell suddenly appeared in front of her. With a joyous smile and a quick peck to her cheek, Sansa was pulled into the midst of dancers, where Renly Baratheon was already doing what she was certain was supposed to pass as dancing.

"Hey there birthday girl." Renly was swaying, his brown locks plastered to his forehead and he gave her a cheeky grin.

"My birthday isn't until tomorrow."

"It's almost midnight isn't it?"

Sansa smiled and leaned closer to yell in his ear. "Renly it's only nine."

He winked at her before chugging down on more of his whiskey. "Never too early to celebrate."

She laughed as all three clinked their glasses in a toast, and soon she was losing herself in the beat of the music. Sansa closed her eyes, smiling, as she let the sounds of the party carry her away.

Three songs later, someone came barreling in on their little piece of heaven, frantically calling for Renly. She watched in concern as his face lost his normally joyous expression and was gradually replaced with worry.

"What's going on?" she yelled at Loras, who was already moving in on Renly, an arm carefully draped around his shoulders.

"Joffrey's having some sort of allergic reaction or some shit. We need to take him to a hospital."

Sansa moved forward, squeezing Renly into a tight hug. She didn't say anything and Renly smiled sadly at her in understanding. The only thing she was sorry about was that she couldn't really say she was sorry.