"One cup."

"It would not do to-"

"It would not do to disobey me, wife." Joffrey was tiring quickly of this game. He'd been trying to coerce her into a cup of wine for near half an hour and his patience was wearing thin. She'd given every reason he'd ever heard anyone use in refusing, and then some. But what really bothered him, what irked him to no end, was how cool her demeanor seemed to be. Why, he could not say. But she did not look frightened or anxious. Rather, she appeared… collected. He took another swig of his own, frustrated.

"I won't be offended, my King. Have all the drink you like, you don't need to wait for me to join you." That much was quite clear- he'd already had two cups full, in his efforts to make her drink. Her courtesy was a masked insult. She seemed so sure she could dance around the truth endlessly, that he'd never simply say why she must drink. And she was right, thus far- if he was forthcoming with his reasons, it would spoil the whole thing.

He couldn't very well say outright that the wine was tainted; that it had been infused with a new elixir- 'Maidensbane', Littlefinger had called it when he'd slipped it into Joff's hand- which was supposed to awaken certain… desires, uncontrollably, when ingested. Unlike the drops the little lord had given him last time, these could be taken by both parties for what promised to be an extreme sort of sexual experience. So, a dose had gone into each cup- his and Sansa's. The trouble was, only he had downed his. And then, when he poured again, he had forgotten which cup was his and which was hers, so he'd added another dose to both, just in case he got the wrong one. He was already beginning to feel its effects: heightened sensitivity, lusty arousal, and a euphoric, hazy feeling. Of course, it didn't help that he'd already downed two cups- or was it three? ...Four? Somehow, he'd lost track. That gave him a moment's pause; It shouldn't have been so difficult to remember. But the building excitement in his nerves and the thrumming in his groin made it easy to forget.

"I will not wait for you, that's not the… just- just- drink!" Having had enough of her insolence, he snatched the cup off the table and stalked to her seat at the far end. They had been supping in the great hall, but when the meal was finished, Joffrey had commanded the servants not to pour the wine for his Queen and him. He did not want some stupid kitchen wench ruining this adventure. Having dismissed them of their duties, he'd expected them to leave. When they didn't, he'd given them a long look, hoping they might catch his intention. They did not, dumb things. It was only after he'd poured the drops into the wine, his back to Sansa so that only the line of them standing by could see, and shot pointed looks at each of them, whispering, "What are you waiting for? Leave!" that they'd made themselves scarce. The long table had been awkward after that, with just the two of them at it. He'd been waiting to close the distance between them for some time.

As he approached, he thought he may have seen fear flash in her eyes for the first time. That was more like it. He held out the goblet, in front of her face. She did not move. Her eyes shot up to him coolly.

"If I am with child, it would be unwise to drin-" He grabbed her roughly by the arm and thrust the rim of the cup against her mouth. It clanked sharply against her teeth and she recoiled. "Ahh!" Her hand went to her mouth where the metal had impacted her. It did catch him a bit off guard- he hadn't meant to hurt her, but his hand had been clumsier than he'd anticipated. Still, it was necessary that she drink. The arousal was beginning to overtake him- it was all he could do to hide the swell in his pants behind the wooden slab of table, and he wanted to try this with her. He wanted it, and he was the King, and he got what he bloody wanted.

Joff reached for her cheeks with his left hand, pressing in to open her jaw. When he managed her teeth apart a crack, his right hand brought the goblet back to her lips, turned sharply on its side to pour the liquid into her. She squirmed and fought, but the wine found its destination. A mouthful in, she shook his hand free of her face and spat the red stuff back out, all over the table and her fine silks. She choked and coughed once, pushing the chair she sat in back from him and ducking away from another grab, and then was on her feet. He reached for her twice more, each time nearly getting a hold on her, but his fingers felt clumsy and he kept misjudging how far away she was. And then, she was off.

She crashed out of the room, flinging the great doors open and fleeing between them. Joffrey pursued her, only a few steps behind. She ran fast- quite fast- and he struggled mightily to keep up. She led him out into the great marble halls, through corridors and down stone steps. He lost track of the path they took- was she going… into the kitchen? She did, stealing through the dark on light feet. He was stronger and faster, he knew, but he felt so heavy tonight, for some reason, that she continued to evade him. She went past the back pantry, and out the small door to the outside. An entrance small enough not to be guarded by any of his men at this time of night. Fool girl! It had been raining all afternoon, a late summer storm, it was bound to be wet outside-

It was more than wet, he found when the torrent hit him. During the night, evidently, the drizzle had become a downpour. Torchlights from the wall reflected in the rivers of rain water running over the stone walkways of the gardens and Sansa dashed through it undeterred, kicking up great sprays in her wake. He followed, hot on her heels, so infuriated by her disobedience that his soaked wools did not stop him.

She ran down a main path and he knew he nearly had her when she suddenly turned left, leaving him to careen straight into a brick wall. He hit it, cursed slightly, checked himself with his hands and felt that he had only scratched a cheek. He retraced his steps a couple of feet and found the tiny path she'd taken, next to a hedge of rose bushes. He took up the chase again and could soon see her ahead of him. Her silks, saturated with rain, clung tightly to her body as she ran. It was dark out here, but he was guided by her heavy breaths and footfalls. She turned sharply; he followed. Wools snagging on branches and feet tripping over roots, he struggled but managed. She turned again; he had to guess which fork she'd taken, guessed wrong, stopped to listen for her rustling through the brush, did, and went that way. Another turn, another guess- this time right- and then she was climbing over the great roots of an ancient tree. He ascended the little hill she'd taken, determined to reach her, and began to stumble his way up the roots behind her. Up ahead, she had reached a gushing stream. It flowed fiercely, burgeoning from its banks and knocking wood and other debris out into its path. The thing must have been a trickle before, now full to bursting with the sudden storm. She looked back at him for the first time since she'd begun this ridiculous chase, and flashed horrified surprise that he was so close. It gave him a small satisfaction and spurred him on.

Looking back to the crossing, she leapt to a rock seated just off the shore. It held her for a moment, then moved- just slightly- beneath her foot. She shrieked and went down hard into the water, dragged a few feet downstream. It gave him time to catch up- he was at the bank by the time she'd regained her footing. She slogged through the water, nearly waist deep, using her hands to pull herself with other rocks and tree branches. Eyeing the stream for a better way to cross, Joff saw a line of boulders just upstream and went for them. By the time she was pulling herself out of the flow, he was beginning to pick his way across. He managed to get to the opposite bank without falling in, and by then she was only a few steps ahead of him. She threw herself under a hanging curtain of moss, barrelling to the other side. He did the same, though it fell into his eyes during his pass and tangled him for half a moment. He threw the slimey plants from himself and pressed forward to find her in the wide clearing beyond.

Suddenly, something caught him and he could not break free. Squinting through the blinding rain, he saw Sansa turn- an utter mess of watery, ruined fabric mud-stained and covered in smears of green plant, heaving winded breaths. Her hair was flattened, heavy with water and sticking everywhere to her face. But for some reason, she looked… confused. She was staring at him. At him, and… past him. Joffrey tried to move again, but was held fast by something. Hands! It was hands that held him! Strong hands, but whose?! Sansa was there, paces away, how could she… his mind reeled. He could not comprehend this. It was like a riddle and his thoughts felt so cloudy, so muddled…. He smelled something. Odd, it reminded him of… mint, and… cloves? Some sort of spice?

"How… how did you know I'd be here?" she called through the rain, sounding very far away.

"Call it a lucky guess," The voice called back, loud and deep, just next to Joffrey's ear. She looked as perplexed as he felt. As if to explain herself, she offered,

"You said, if I was ever in trouble-"

"I did. And you were smart to come to this place."

"But he followed-"

"Don't worry, my dove. You let me take care of His Grace." Joffrey fought to turn his head within the grasp that held him fast, and was able to make out the very edge of a man's profile. Whomever it was stood too close; Joff could not get a look at him, and anyway he was having trouble making his eyes focus. It was in craning to the side that he realized he'd been standing somewhere dry since he'd been grabbed. Under an overhang of some kind, near a wall that he couldn't quite make out. The rain fell in a sheet in front of him, off the edge of the overhang. "Did you enjoy your wine?" Now the voice was quieter, intimate. It spoke just to Joffrey so that no one else could hear.

"It… It was fine…" Finally, the King managed to wrench himself free enough to twist around and see the face of… Littlefinger? Suddenly relieved, the boy let out a bark of a sigh. "It's only you! Yes, I think it worked, only, that bitch wouldn't drink any of it-"

"No. No, she wouldn't. I made sure of that." Joffrey wasn't sure he'd heard the man correctly.

"You made sure…?"

"Far too frightened. And good thing she was, too. Do you feel dizzy, my Lord King? A little out of sorts?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I think it's working, the stuff you gave me-"

"Oh, yes. It works. The Maidensbane will have made you aroused, more sensitive and excited than usual."

"Yes! Now you've got to help me get her to-"

"But the Sweetsleep is, I imagine, weighing on your wits a bit. You'll be needing to lie down before too long."

"Sweetsleep? But there was no Sweetsleep in my wine." No one had given him any since he was a babe in arms, but Joffrey remembered well enough. He'd been brought up with the stuff dulling the pains of toothaches and putting him to deep slumber when he was tossing and turning with a fever.

"Oh, wasn't there?" A beat as he registered what the lord was implying.

"You… you poisoned me?!"

"No," the Lord laughed gently. "You did." Joffrey sputtered, equal parts disbelieving and indignant.

"But- But- you tricked me!"

"Mmmm. Shame so many of your own guard saw you put the drops in the cups yourself. But you couldn't make them leave, could you? Almost as if they were waiting for you to do it. Almost as if they'd been told to stay." The boy struggled to understand. This man was his ally, his subject, his friend.

"But… why?" Littlefinger turned his King's face forward again, forcefully.

"Look at her. I mean, really look. Even like this, unravelled and waterlogged, she is beautiful. Do you know what she looks like in ecstasy? When she reaches her moment of pleasure? I do. It is exquisite. I've seen hundreds of women in that moment, but hers is… quite special. I could watch it over and over again, as long as I live. And I probably will. Thank you for that- I would never have known the sight if I hadn't had you to deliver her to me."

"How… dare you? She... is my wife!" Words were beginning to come harder now to the young lion. He grasped for each one.

"She was." There was a long moment as Joffrey fought both to keep from stumbling to the ground, and to understand the man's meaning. When he spoke again, he found he needed a breath after every few words, which in turn began to slur.

"Even if she were... no longer mine… she would go to-"

"Tommen. Your sweet, gentle brother- Tommen the Obedient, I think I'll call him. The Stark will still wed the Baratheon. Tommen, who listens to those around him and does as they tell him. Women, for instance. Wives. Councilmen."

"He will not... usurp me! My Queen is... well seeded, my child... will sit the throne-"

"Mine." A beat.

"What?"

"My child will sit the throne." It was spoken so quietly, Joffrey had to strain to hear. "I bedded your Queen just last night. I took her maidenhood- she was magnificently tight and tender, you should know. Shame you'll never feel what it is to know a virgin girl. I will have her again tonight, and tomorrow, over and over and over again, until she bears me a son. And when he comes of age, he will sit in that steel chair you've been warming for him."

"You… you… liar!" Though his movements were as muddled as his speech, the boy managed to draw his dagger from its sheath, angling it up behind him, toward his captor's throat. Out in the rain, so far away now, Sansa screamed. Lord Baelish wrapped his hand around Joffrey's, stilling it but never touching the weapon. He began to force the blade back down, down, further… until it neared Joff's own gut. There was not much of a struggle; his arms were weak and heavy from the particularly potent variety of Nightshade he'd unknowingly mixed in his wine.

"How much… Sweetsleep… did you… put in that… bottle ?"

"Enough to make this merely a precaution," the man said just before wrenching Joffrey's wrist around and burying the thing straight into his belly. It made a sickening sound as it slid effortlessly into the flesh, sinking deep and twisting. He could only watch in horror and disbelief, the dull, strange sensation slowly welling up along with the red stains on his velvets. "Clumsy, clumsy," tutted the murderer. "Shame you tripped over that rock with your weapon drawn. Haste never pays." Joff saw his attacker's hands first, leaving his field of vision, stained bright crimson. Then his own, as they slowly unwrapped the hilt of the blade. He held them, palms up, dumbfounded at the tiny rivers of blood in their creases. He looked up, out beyond the curtain of water still pouring off the overhang just in front of him, and saw the woman in question- only a girl, really- eyes wide and hands clapped over her mouth. The body behind him, which had been as much supporting as imprisoning and him stepped away. Joffrey's knees buckled. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He toppled to the ground, falling awkwardly on his side to the gold-flecked marble beneath him. The world swam around him, a kaleidoscope of hazy iterations of itself.

Boots entered his darkening field of vision, and a long, heavy grey cape. Great puddles of rainwater were kicked up as the figure strode across the clearing in the dark night, toward shivering, drenched Sansa, still speechless. The man put both his hands to her face with a rough urgency, smearing bright red blood over the brown caked mud and dark snakes of tree leaves and hair. Only her eyes still shone brightly, reflecting the distant light of a torch in the town as the lord smashed her dark red, trembling lips with his own. He kissed her with such a ferocity, such a claiming hunger, it looked as though he meant to consume her.

She held still a moment, as the King fought his swimming vision and the thrumming in his ears that rendered the rest of the world silent. His head dipped forward, his chest shuddered a final breath, and the last thing that Joffrey Baratheon saw before his eyes closed were Sansa's fingers, dripping with smeared mud and water, sliding slowly to circle around Littlefinger's body and fist tightly in the fine woolens on his back.