That afternoon King Joffrey once again put on his favorite show: royal justice.
Same as always, he ordered every lord, lady, and knight in King's Landing to attend. Sansa Stark had no choice. The maids dressed her without asking; Ser Meryn Trant marched her to the throne room without a word about what she wanted.
She didn't fight it. She just told herself it would be the same routine—tucked in the usual corner behind the crowd. Maybe the tall lords and their wives would block the king's view. Maybe the farce would end before he invented some new way to hurt her. Then she could slip back to the godswood, far from the cold Red Keep, far from the cruel king and his poisonous family, far from the lying white cloaks of the Kingsguard.
The small council seats were already set in front of the Iron Throne. Cersei sat in the center wearing blood-red silk and glittering gold, beautiful enough to stop a man's heart. On her right was Jaime Lannister in white cloak and white armor, wearing that same arrogant half-smile. Tyrion had to perch on a specially raised chair because of his height; beside him sat Grand Maester Pycelle half-asleep, Varys and Littlefinger whispering to each other.
Every counselor and petitioner was present. Only the Iron Throne itself—forged from the swords of a thousand defeated enemies—stood empty.
Joffrey didn't keep them waiting long. The great doors crashed open and the crowned boy stormed in like a whirlwind. Everyone bowed. He ignored them and climbed straight onto the throne.
"His Grace, Joffrey of House Baratheon the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!" Janos Slynt's shrill voice rang out across the hall.
Sansa kept her eyes on the floor. She didn't dare look at the monster wearing the crown.
He was the one who had ordered her father's head struck off.
He was the one who had set Robb's severed head in front of her and forced her to stare at her brother's dead face.
Just remembering that nightmare made her shake. She had fainted on the spot; only Tyrion's desperate pleading had stopped Joffrey from dragging the head out again and making her kiss its cold lips for his amusement.
She tried to remember the prayers her mother had taught her. The holy words wouldn't come.
"Begin," Joffrey said, lounging on the Iron Throne as if it had always belonged to butchers instead of good kings like Baelor and Daeron.
Sansa had been raised to believe a king should be a father to his people—protective, kind, wise. In Joffrey she had never seen any of those things. His version of protection was an executioner's axe. His version of care was taking whatever he wanted.
Lord Gyles Rosby stepped forward first, coughing theatrically and pretending to weep. He begged the king to let House Rosby pay half the cost of a golden statue honoring Lord Tywin's glorious victory over the rebels. Littlefinger tried to object. Joffrey loved the idea and ordered the Master of Coin to find the money—then told him to squeeze the newly submitted riverlords for every copper.
"Let the traitors pay for their treason!" the king declared. The small council beamed. The royal treasury wouldn't lose a single stag.
Next, Slynt's men dragged the elderly armorer Salloreon before the throne. A neighbor had accused the white-haired craftsman of toasting Stannis and calling him the true king. The old man swore it was a lie born of jealousy. At Joffrey's nod, Ser Boros Blount beat him until he confessed.
Tyrion and Jaime both suggested prison and hard labor. Joffrey had a better idea.
"He wants to serve the usurper? Then send him to Stannis!" The boy laughed like it was the funniest jest in the world. "Stuff him and his whole family in sacks and throw them in the Blackwater. From now on, every traitor dies the same way!"
Three barefoot septas were brought forward next—two young novices in rags and an older woman with a grief-stricken face. They wept as they told how the Mountain's men had sacked their sept, stolen everything, raped and murdered the sisters, and dragged the rest away. Even the godless Blackwoods would never commit such crimes, the older septa sobbed.
Joffrey looked bored. "Riverland septs are just whorehouses full of wine and sinners. They probably prayed for the Tullys anyway. Ser Gregor's men were only doing what soldiers have always done."
He waved Slynt forward. "If they bother me again, throw them all in Silk Street. They can thank me when they're done."
After that the king lost interest in the rest—bakers mixing chaff, dyers fighting over dye vats, landlords complaining about gold cloaks. He waved them off to the small council and yawned through the rulings. The baker went to the dungeons, the dyer won his case, and the gold cloaks walked free.
"If there is nothing else, court is—"
"Your Grace," Jaime spoke without turning around, "the High Septon requests an audience. With the whole court present, he should be shown the proper respect."
Joffrey sat back down with obvious annoyance and told Slynt to let the man in.
Sansa watched the High Septon waddle into the hall and felt nothing but contempt. Littlefinger had once said the man's devotion to the Seven was nowhere near as strong as his devotion to roasted capon. Even beside Lord Manderly he looked grotesquely fat. His rainbow robes and crystal crown only made him uglier, especially next to the three ragged septas who had just been thrown out.
For one heartbeat she hoped the voice of the Faith would speak for those poor women and condemn the Red Keep's crimes. She should have known better.
"Your Grace, Joffrey the First, may the Father grant you long life, the Crone light your path, and the Warrior give you strength," the fat man intoned in a wheezy, oily voice. "Baelor's Great Sept prays day and night for your grandfather's victory over the traitors."
"Thank you for the prayers," Joffrey said flatly. "What do you want?"
The High Septon cleared his throat and launched into a long, scriptural speech. "The Father and the Warrior have given your grandfather victory on the battlefield, yet victory alone is not enough. The realm and your royal blood demand a future. The Faith is troubled by your betrothal to Sansa Stark—"
"Betrothal?" Joffrey looked blank; he had never bothered reading the holy texts.
"Exactly, Your Grace." The High Septon's tone dripped venom when he spoke Sansa's name. "The faithful fear that the future king will marry the spawn of traitors. A traitor's blood taints seven generations. Your people beg you to dissolve this foul union and wed a loyal, highborn maiden who will give the realm true heirs instead of hellspawn."
Sansa's heart lurched.
She had once dreamed of becoming Joffrey's queen. Now this hateful fat man was handing her the greatest mercy she could imagine.
Joffrey frowned. "I swore an oath before the gods. My father wanted the match."
Cersei cut in smoothly. "The good of the realm comes before any oath, Your Grace. A vow made to traitors is no vow at all—especially when they broke faith first."
"The queen is right," the High Septon agreed at once. "A king stands second only to the gods. He may set aside any promise for the kingdom's sake."
Jaime, Tyrion, Pycelle, and even Littlefinger all spoke in favor of ending the betrothal. They said House Stark was finished and the match no longer served any purpose. The High Septon offered to dissolve it on the spot, right there in the throne room.
The hall buzzed. Joffrey cleared his throat and the whispers died.
"I respect the gods," he said, smiling the cruel little smile Sansa knew too well, "but I also remember a king's duty. I agree the farce should end. My father would understand—given the Starks' treason."
"Sansa Stark," Cersei commanded, voice cold as winter steel, "step forward."
Sansa walked out from behind the crowd. Dozens of eyes followed her—curious, amused, delighted. None of them knew the wild joy hammering inside her chest.
The gods had finally answered.
Joffrey was letting her go. She was free.
She stopped before the Iron Throne. The High Septon began a long, pompous prayer to the Seven for wisdom, justice, and mercy—qualities that had never lived inside these walls.
When he finished he pronounced the betrothal dissolved.
"Your Grace, you are now free to wed any maiden worthy of a king."
"Thank you, Your Holiness," Joffrey said.
Throughout the whole ceremony his eyes never left Sansa. That look made her stomach twist.
She wanted to run. But the king wasn't finished.
"Dissolving the betrothal frees me," he said, still smiling that awful smile, "and it frees Lady Sansa as well. She is young, beautiful, and of an age to marry. As king I have the right to arrange a suitable match for her. Therefore, in the name of the gods and the people, I declare my royal will—"
Sansa's heart, which had just begun to soar, slammed back down into ice.
The monster wasn't done with her yet.