The summons came in the early morning hours.

Sansa was still abed when a thumping on her chamber door awoke her, jolting her from a dream of warm halls, Lady's soft fur, and a sweet voice humming a familiar lullaby she couldn't quite place. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes until her chamber swam into focus. All was cloaked in heavy shadows, the last flickers of her dying fire somehow making it all seem darker. No dawn light peeked through her window, but the distant chirping birds heralded the coming day.

The thumping at her door returned, more insistent this time.

She slipped from her warm bed, her heart already pounding sickly in her chest. Being awoke at this hour was unnatural and could bring no good tidings. She could not fathom who could be at her door. The only people to cross her doorway in the past weeks were servants, but they would have no business with her in these small hours.

The unknown weighed heavy and filled her chest with dread.

She made for the door, then remembered and doubled back. She quickly bundled up the cloth she was using as a bed covering and stuffed it into the chest at the foot of her bed. Raising up again, she snatched up her sleeping robe from her chair and padded to the door as the thumping returned a third time. Her door shook beneath the knocks.

"Who is it," she called out, feeling small and wishing for all the world that a kind voice would call back from the other side.

"Me," the gruff voice from the other side rasped. "Open up."

Sansa unlatched her door and swung it open slowly. Sandor Clegane took up the entire door frame. He loomed over her with a scowl twisting the unburned side of his face and his armor clanked as he stepped over the threshold.

"Good morrow Ser, how fares your day?" Sansa asked as pleasantly as she could. A wild rush of relief that it was Sandor Clegane at her door quickly fled as realization dawned on her. Joffrey must have plans for her today.

"Piss off with that chirping," Sandor growled, clearly unhappy with being out of bed before the light of dawn. His gray eyes were bloodshot and the smell of last night's wine wafted over with each word. He seemed to want to look at anywhere but her but wasn't having much success. "Put some bloody clothes on. The king demands your presence."

She glanced down and realized that her robe had become untied, revealing her sleeping gown. Like the rest of her clothing it was ill fitting, too short, and much too tight. She had let out the seams as far as she could but she had simply outgrown it too rapidly for it to do much good. Her cheeks reddened and she quickly tied her robe shut again. It wasn't proper to be in the same room as a man while in one's sleeping clothes, and it was especially improper when one's sleeping clothes covered so little.

She cleared her throat, "A moment, please."

"A moment only. You don't want to keep him waiting," he nodded as he stepped back over the threshold and turned his massive back to her. She softly shut the door behind him and dressed as quickly as she could manage. She had ran her brush through her hair while swishing mint water in her mouth, spat, and was already slipping on slippers one handed when she opened her door again. Sandor nodded his approval at her speed, then turned and began walking to the throne room without glancing back to make sure she followed. She scurried to catch up. After a few steps of keeping pace, she smoothed down the front of her dress and glanced at the large man beside her.

"Did my traitor brother launch another attack?" She asked, needing to know what she would be punished for this time.

"Not recently," he rasped.

"Has there been news about the king's uncle? Is Ser Jaime in good health?"

"No news."

"What of the other houses? Did more turn traitorous and join my brother?"

"No," he glared in irritation. "Stop with all the damned questions. I know as much as you. Dragged out of my bloody bed, barely an hours rest, only to find the king still awake and in a rage. Been three days without sleep for him and seems he wants us all to join in that fucking count."

"What ails him?" Sansa asked, her fear mounting.

Sandor snorted and did not reply.

"Did he say why he wanted to see me?"

"Why else, little bird?" She nodded in understanding and asked no more questions. The king didn't need a reason for his cruelty.

The Hound held open the throne room's door for her, led her to the throne, then took his place beside the boy-king. Cersei sat beside Joffrey, an icy presence that chilled the rest of the room. Only they occupied the chamber, all others still sleeping at this hour. Sansa knelt before them both and kept her head bowed as she waited for Joffrey to speak.

She wrung her hands as though that might ease the knot sitting in the pit of her stomach. The last time she had stood in the throne room she had been stripped and beaten by Ser Meryn. That was weeks ago. Her bruises had finally faded and she did not wish to replace them so soon, but she knew her wishes would not be taken into account for whatever was about to happen.

Finally, Joffrey's high voice cut across the tension, "Pack your belongings."

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa murmured and peeked up. "Will I be traveling?"

"No, you stupid girl," his fat worm lips twisted into a sneer, "I am doing what should have been done moons ago. You are kin of filthy traitors, and have no right to pollute a chamber in this royal keep!"

"Of course, Your Grace," Sansa's stomach twisted in unease. "I am a fool, and my traitor brother is a fool. I don't deserve the mercy you've shown me."

The boy-king settled back into his seat, cruel glee lighting his eyes. "No, you don't deserve it. I shall extend it to you all the same, since I'm such a merciful king."

"Oh thank you, Your Grace," Sansa gasped and dared peek up further from her lowered gaze. She had been banished to her room after her punishment those weeks ago, and had not seen Joffrey since then. She was frightened by the changes she saw. Joffrey sat in rumpled clothes, most likely the same he had worn yesterday and perhaps the day before that. Dark circles rimmed his pale, watery eyes, and a rapid tic took up residence in his right eye. Something seemed to be eating away at him, like a dog gnawing at a bone. She suspected it had to do with Robb's spree of successful battles, but she couldn't be sure.

Sansa darted her gaze to Cersei and found her less rumpled than her son, but just as tired looking. Her golden hair was perfectly coiled, her scarlet gown was freshly pressed, but her eyes were weary and the corners of her mouth sagged. She clearly did not approve of whatever was about to happen. Sansa snapped her eyes back to Joffrey.

"Your head belongs on a spike, right beside your father's and your useless brother's," he spat.

"As you say, Your Grace," Sansa agreed.

"Instead, you shall be stripped of your nobility. No longer will you be considered a lady born and bred, but shall be regarded as the common traitorous scum you are."

"Your Grace?"

"Silence! As a commoner you have no right to address your king. You shall live and work among the servants as a chambermaid. Scrubbing filth and cleaning chamber pots is the least of what you deserve. This is my royal decree. Ah, here comes Ser Mandon now, returned from arranging your new position," he chortled as footsteps drew closer behind Sansa.

"Your Grace," the guard bowed his greeting, "All has been done to your instructions. The kitchen awaits her arrival." The man's straw colored hair was ruffled, as though he had been roused quite suddenly in the night by the king's demands.

Joffrey snickered and waved his limp hand in dismissal, "Good. Hound, lead the traitor to the servants quarters." She swallowed thickly and curtsied, her head reeling. As she spun round to leave she caught a flash of Joffery's satisfied sneer and Sandor's unreadable scowl as he advanced after her.

The walk back to her old chambers seemed much faster than the walk from it. She had told herself the entire way from the throne room that she must remain a lady in disposition if not in name. They would not take her courtesies from her. As such, she ought not sniffle and whine in front of company. It would be unseemly.

It's downright crass to be doing so despite my own warnings, she thought as she angrily swiped away moisture from her cheek. It was foolish to sniffle over this, for it would change nothing. She screwed her eyes shut tight. She didn't know how to scrub floors. She didn't know how to clean a hearth. She didn't know how to wash linens. She didn't know what to do with a full chamber pot. She didn't know how cruelly the others would treat her without her title as protection. She didn't know anything. She was finally the stupid little girl they all thought her to be.

"Here, little bird," a voice from above her head rasped. A large hand gently dabbed at her face with a rough-spun handkerchief before pressing the cloth into her hand. "There's little time for that now. Pack your sturdiest dresses and what little things you have of value. They will not let you return here after you leave."

"Thank you, my lord," she said softly, her eyes still closed.

"I'm no noble, how many times do I have to tell you that?" Sandor snapped, and suddenly his voice seemed further away.

Neither am I, she thought, finally trusting herself enough to open her eyes without risking further tears. She found Sandor standing by her dressing table, gathering her combs and brushes in his arms, before marching over to her closed chest. He leaned down as though to open the lid. Her heart jolted, and she sprang forward.

"Oh, let me open that," she nearly shouted and she slid to her knees at his feet. Sandor frowned down at her, but she paid him no heed. She opened the lid, angling her body to hide the contents from his view. She shuffled her gowns around until she was satisfied the cloth she'd shoved in this morning was hidden from view, then rose. He dumped his armful in unceremoniously. Together, the two of them made short work of packing up her life into her small chest.

He snapped the chest lid closed, lifted the chest as though it weighed nothing, and nodded his chin to her door. She obeyed, scurrying to open it for him. She did not look back as she shut the door behind them both. There was no use lingering.

He led her down winding hallways to a section of the keep she had never seen before. Fewer torches lit this way, as though they were loath to waste precious light on the lowly servants.

She thought of Jeyne Pool and wondered not for the first time where she had gone. After her father's imprisonment, her servant and young friend had vanished. She had heard Jeyne was taken to see her own father, but she didn't know if she believed it. She wanted to believe it, which as she had learned was reason enough to distrust it. She had wanted to believe Joffrey's love, but she had seen where that had led her. She thought of her father's tarred head on that horrible spike and shuddered.

Her betrothal to Joffrey had been broken a few days after her brother Robb won the first battle of his rebellion. Cersei and the small council had pressed that it was impossible to mar their lovely royal lineage with the blood of traitors, and so the agreement was severed.

She had always been kept as a hostage, but after that it became more obvious and less effort was taken to hide it. Her handmaids had been dismissed, and despite her clear need of it no new gowns had been made for her when she outgrew her old ones. She was no longer welcomed in the dining hall, instead she was sent her meals in her room. The other courtiers shunned her openly, sneering and scoffing when she came near. Small public beatings occurred on Joffrey's orders. It had carried on this way for weeks and weeks.

She feared to know how much worse her life would be as a servant. If little Jeyne could be made to vanish without a trace, what would they do to her?