Please forgive me," Sansa replied mechanically.
She knew that "Blackheart" Gendry was now the King's nightmare, a terrifying and powerful bastard warrior, and she couldn't help but think of Jon.
The braver and more prominent Blackheart became, the more it made the King appear weak and incompetent, not a true stag.
The Hound scoffed.
"Little Birds, they've trained you well."
He led Sansa to the lower courtyard, where a crowd had gathered at the archery range.
Upon seeing the two of them, people hastily made way.
Sansa understood that people had grown accustomed to it; she was merely the mad King's prisoner.
Even stable boys and cooks could look at her disrespectfully.
She saw Lord Gaels, frail and constantly coughing, and saw the Redwyne twins pretending not to see her.
"Be brave," Ser Thorys the fool secretly told her.
Sansa had saved this drunkard's life at the Tourney on the King's nameday, and since then he had been a silly clown riding a broomstick horse, forbidden to ride a real one.
"Miss Sansa has arrived!" The Hound announced loudly.
King Joffrey said impatiently, "Alright, The Hound, I have eyes."
The King was already past thirteen, well-developed, very tall, with the golden hair and blue eyes characteristic of House Lannister.
Joffrey stood in the center of the crowd, with Ser Allar and Ser Boros on either side, and Joffrey held a magnificent crossbow in his hand.
Ser Allar had light brown hair and a not unhandsome face.
Today, his white silk cloak was fastened at his shoulder with a golden leaf, and a flourishing oak tree was embroidered on the front of his tunic with shimmering gold thread, making him look very dashing.
"Your Grace," Sansa immediately knelt down.
"Kneeling won't save you!" the King shouted.
"Your brother is a traitors; he bent the knee to that Bastard, hmph, the Bastard injured my uncle Jaime.
I will punish you."
"Your Grace, I have nothing to do with my traitors brother.
You know that, please, I beg you—"
"Pull her up!"
The Hound slowly pulled her up.
"Ser Boros, tell her what good things her brother has done?"
Ser Boros glared at Sansa, with no sympathy or kindness in his eyes.
"The ambitious Gendry is a traitors declared by the Iron Throne; he used vile means to chop off Ser Jaime's hand in the Whispering Woods, and tens of thousands of brave men were massacred in the night, without even a chance to raise their swords in defense.
And your brother, with the Northerners, serves this man, attempting to cut off Lord Tywin's supply lines and march south to King's Landing."
Fear washed over her; Sansa knew she was about to be beaten again, though not on the face.
"Hmph, bring my prey over," the King announced.
A servant brought over a clumsy little black dog.
King Joffrey drew his crossbow, and "Whizz! Whizz!" he shot through the little dog's ribs, and the poor dog yelped piteously.
"This is the end of traitors!" the King shrieked, then aimed at Sansa.
He raised the crossbow, aiming at her face.
"Mercy!"
"Hmph, your family is as cruel as wolves.
Your Bastard brother, and your wolf cub sister, fortunately they escaped, otherwise..."
"They didn't hurt you, Your Grace.
You killed Lady."
"Killed?
It wasn't enough that I killed it once; I want to kill it a thousand times.
Your wolves, and your family members, it is said you can turn into wolves." The King pointed at Sansa, the cold arrowhead gleaming cruelly.
"No, it's not."
The King lowered his arm, putting down the crossbow.
"Originally I was going to shoot you dead, but Mother said that would make the Northerners completely turn to the Bastard, so I can only punish you.
We will send a message to your brother, telling him what fate awaits you if he does not surrender.
Ser Allar, beat her for me!"
"Let me hit her!" Ser Thorys the fool pushed forward, using his broomstick horse to beat the girl.
He hit people with the broom, shouting "traitors! traitors!"
People laughed heartily.
Sansa was filled with gratitude, wanting to kiss his ugly face, spotted and veined.
If laughter worked, would she escape this time?
"Get this clown out of here," the King commanded.
The Kingsguard, Ser Boros, stepped forward to drive Thorys away, roughly throwing him aside, and the red-faced clown fell sprawling, eliciting even louder laughter from the crowd.
"I'm sorry, Miss," Ser Allar said, grabbing Sansa.
He apologized in a low voice, then his fist came down.
"Don't hit her face; I want her to remain beautiful."
Sansa felt a great reprieve, spared a heavy beating today.
Among the Kingsguard, only Ser Allar was polite, would speak to her sincerely, and struck her more gently.
Ser Boros, however, was ill-tempered, Ser Meryn was cold and ruthless, Ser Mandon's strange dead eyes always made her uncomfortable, and Ser Preston looked at her as if she were a mentally deficient child.
As for The Hound, he refused to lay a hand on her.
"Thump! Thump!" Ser Allar's fists landed on Sansa's stomach; it looked painful, but he was still holding back his strength.
"Not enough, hit her body with the scabbard," the King commanded.
Ser Allar, helpless, drew his scabbard and struck the girl fiercely.
Sansa screamed, tears streaming from her eyes, a slave in a beautiful blue dress.
"Enough!" The Hound growled, frowning.
"She is my traitors," the King sneered.
"Your Grace, in my opinion, this little wolf girl still has some value..." Ser Allar turned back, pleading.
"Fine, for The Hound's sake.
Let her go back and rest; next time I'll have Ser Boros do it," the King said impatiently.
Sansa wept as she left the place; they were not true knights.
The Hound hated knights, and Sansa understood why.
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