Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1296382.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Joffrey_Baratheon/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Joffrey_Baratheon, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Violence, Object_Penetration, Sadism
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-10 Words: 6039
****** No Light in Her Bright Blue Eyes ******
by tobiume
Summary
     Sansa is summoned to Joffrey's chamber shortly after her first
     flowering. She is frightened, with good reason. (Not romantic, happy,
     or AU).
Author's Note: This story contains scenes with non-consensual sex, torture,
slapping, and whipping. It is based on content from the ASOIAF series as well
as the GoT show.

Thank you to Harmonic Friction for suggestions, critique, and excellent
assistance in developing ideas. You're amazing.
===============================================================================
 
                       No Light in Her Bright Blue Eyes
   ...and I thought I wouldn't have to be with you (Hey Jupiter, Tori Amos)
===============================================================================
 
Sansa waits outside Joffrey's chamber, knotting her hands in her skirts. Her
heart is pounding, and not with excitement. Joffrey used to make her heart
race. He was so handsome, and she thought him so kind and strong. She used to
feel fluttery when he took her hand, but now, after he broke his promise to
grant her father mercy, she only feels anger and revulsion. She shudders away
from the still-vivid memory of her father's head on the castle walls and fights
down the bile that rises in her throat. Her stomach and back ache from the
beatings of the Kingsguard.
Ser Arys raps on the door and, at Joffrey's command, pushes it open. Sansa
enters, her eyes darting around the room. The king stands by the fire. The
Hound is in the corner, waiting for his master's command. Sansa lowers her
gaze. She feels ill. She doesn't know why she's here, only that she shouldn't
be. The only women allowed in a man's chambers are mothers, servants, wives,
and whores.
She curtsies to Joffrey. Her curtsy is perfect, despite her trembling legs.
Sansa is proud that she can maintain her composure in Joffrey's presence,
although it's difficult, as all she wants to do is run, all the way back to
Winterfell, if she could.
"Leave us," he orders his men, and Sansa's mask slips. The Kingsguard can't
leave. They're supposed to guard the king, but they also present a bare form of
chaperonage. Sansa in Joffrey's rooms, with him and his men, could possibly be
overlooked. Sansa alone with Joffrey in his rooms would not be. The queen will
be furious if she finds out, and Sansa will be punished severely. And that's
after whatever Joffrey does to her.
"Your Grace," Sansa begins, fear beginning to spread dizzily through her
stomach.
Joffrey cuts her off. "Look at me when you speak to me!" His voice is petulant,
and Sansa wishes she could slap him. He sounds like baby Rickon when he whines.
She misses Rickon, and Bran, and even Arya, who's surely home by now, with
nothing to worry about but avoiding her dance lessons. A real king would
command respect, Sansa thinks. He wouldn't have to order his subjects to look
at him.
Making sure her face betrays none of her thoughts, Sansa looks up. "Your Grace,
is it right for me to be here, alone? What will your mother say?" The queen is
sometimes able to restrain Joffrey, and Sansa hopes that mentioning her name
will make him reconsider. She doesn't want to be alone with Joffrey, who loudly
and often proclaims his intent to have her in his bed. She doesn't think he
would take her now, before they're wed, but she isn't sure.
"My mother will know nothing," he says. "You won't tell her, will you?" His
voice is sweet, and Sansa hides a shiver. When he's kind, that's when she has
the most to fear.
He's waiting for her answer. "I won't tell, Your Grace." The words stick in her
throat.
The knights leave, The Hound casting one glance back. Sansa wants to plead,
"Don't go, don't leave me with him," but knows that her words will only anger
Joffrey. Better to stay and pretend she is enjoying his company. She can be
courteous. A lady's armor is her courtesy, Septa Mordane used to say. Playing
this game is dangerous because an offense could mean her life, but by now,
Sansa is good at pretending adoration for this monster.
"Sit down, my lady," Joffrey says grandly, gesturing to the chair by the fire.
She walks slowly, waiting for a trap, but when she reaches the chair and stands
before it, waiting for him to sit, he does nothing. She sits after he does,
still wary, and accepts the goblet of wine he hands her, taking only a small
sip before setting it back down.
"You do not like the wine?"
"No, I just am feeling unwell."
"Is it your blood? My mother tells me you've flowered. She says it can be
painful," Joffrey says abruptly.
"Yes, Your Grace." Sansa says. The gleam in Joffrey's eyes frightens her.
"Tell me about it. Where does it hurt?" He leans forward in his seat.
"H-here, Your Grace," Sansa says in confusion, placing her hand on her lower
abdomen. Why does he care about her bleeding?
"She also tells me you tried to burn your mattress because you were afraid.
Does the prospect of wedding me frighten you so?"
"N-no, Your Grace. I was only surprised. I didn't know what to do," Sansa lies,
remembering her thoughts that day: No, please, not now. They'll make me lay
with him now.
"Since you're to be my queen, you may call me Joffrey," he says abruptly. "But
only when we're alone." Sansa nods, startled. "And drink your wine. I wish you
to," His voice has a capricious edge to it.
Sansa lowers her eyes and obeys. She finds that if she takes tiny sips but
keeps the goblet in her hand, Joffrey doesn't object.
He rises after a moment and comes to stand behind her. She's reminded of the
day he gave her a necklace and promised he'd never hurt her again. Sansa sits
very still and does not laugh bitterly at the memory. When Joffrey lays a hand
on her shoulder, she does not flinch. He brushes up one of her curls and twists
it around his finger, then pulls, hard. She winces, and her eyes prickle with
tears. He pulls harder.
"You're hurting me," she cries finally, although she knows he doesn't care,
that he likes hurting her.
He releases her hair, leans in. His voice is low against her ear. "Do I
frighten you, my lady?"
"Yes," she says without thinking. Then she regrets her hasty words. She's
supposed to love him, to be eagerly awaiting their wedding. That's the lie she
recites whenever she's asked. Will he be angry?
"Good," he says, sliding his fingers up to curl around her throat. "You have
such a lovely neck, Sansa. Sweet Sansa. You should be afraid of me. If you
betray me, you'll regret it." His fingers squeeze briefly, tight enough that
drawing breath is difficult. His voice is cruelly gentle. "But if you obey me,
I'll have no reason to punish you."
Blood thrums in her throat, and his fingers tighten once more. Her head spins.
Does he mean to kill her? When his grip loosens, she takes a deep breath and
brings her hand to her throat, protectively. "Of course I'll obey you, Your
Grace. Joffrey." How could I not?
"You will, my sweet? Anything I say, you'll do?"
She takes a breath. "Yes," she whispers. What other answer is there?
"Then stand," he says, his voice high with excitement, like Bran's when he got
his first pony.
She does, her heartbeat wild, her legs shaky. Will he make her kiss his boots?
Swear her loyalty again? He's never hit her himself. Perhaps the absence of his
men grants her some measure of safety, from pain, at least.
"Take off your dress."
"My dress?" She hears her voice tremble. Her thoughts scream no, no, no. He
almost had her stripped, once, in front of the court. The Imp saved her, but
he's not here now. "But why?"
He strides toward her, his face hard. "You would question your king?"
Sansa flinches back, all pretense of composure washed away with her fear.
Suddenly he changes, his scowl softening. "I expect you're only concerned
because you aren't used to being naked around men. But you're to be my wife,
and I wish to look upon your body. So, disrobe. Now." His eyes don't leave her
as he backs up, leaning against the wall. He's going to watch her. Sansa's face
burns with shame. No one has ever watched her undress before, not like this.
She used to imagine her wedding night, imagine her future husband, both
handsome and kind, gently undoing her gown while murmuring his love for her and
caressing her skin. She even imagined Joffrey in his place once their betrothal
was announced. But that romantic daydream has been long abandoned. Now when she
has a quiet moment, or when she's trying to fall asleep, the only thing in her
thoughts is a desperate wish for home.
She plucks at the laces. She's trying to obey, although she doesn't want to,
but her fingers sense her unwillingness and won't comply.
"Faster," he says eagerly. Finally she fumbles them open, tears of shame
burning in her eyes. Her dress falls from her shoulders, but she clings to it,
even as it falls to the floor. It's the purple silk he gave her, and she had
worn it tonight to please him.
When she's naked, he looks her over, his eyes lingering over the bruises
patterning her pale skin in shades of green and purple. Joffrey leans in to
examine them more closely, his breath coming more quickly now. Sansa suppresses
a shudder. "I wish I'd given you these," he says. "I liked watching your face
as each blow fell, but I would have enjoyed punishing you myself."
How can they want her to marry him? How can he be the king? She wants nothing
to do with him or his horrible family, and she doesn't want his children,
either. No matter what the queen says, Sansa doesn't think she could love
Joffrey's children. She'd spend half her time trying to protect them from him
and the other half worrying they would turn out like him. She wonders what
would happen if she tried to run. Would he kill her? Would that really be so
bad? But no, Dontos has promised to help her. She must have faith and bear what
she must until she can go home. But what if he makes her lie with him? Sansa
knows how things go between men and women, her mother and septa both told her
that there was nothing to fear, but she isn't so sure their reassurances apply
to Joffrey.
"What are you thinking of, my lady?" The sneer on Joffrey's face is echoed in
his voice.
"N-nothing," Sansa crosses her arms over her chest, partly to cover herself,
partly because she's cold. "Only, I don't know why I'm here."
"You are here," he says, walking around her, his hands behind his back,
"because your king commanded your presence. Have you forgotten already that you
promised to obey me, to do anything I asked of you?"
"I haven't forgotten, Joffrey," she says, hating the wobble in her voice.
"Move your hands," he snaps suddenly. Sansa reluctantly lets her arms fall to
her sides. Her breasts are small still, and her nipples are pointed sharply in
the chill of the room. Joffrey reaches out and takes one nipple in between his
finger and thumb and pinches, hard. Sansa sucks in her breath as he tightens
his grip and his nail digs in. "Stop it, stop it!" She says when he still
doesn't let go.
He reaches up, snatching a handful of her hair this time, twisting it around
his fingers. "Are you giving me an order? Do you dare order your king?"
"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." The words spill out of Sansa. Joffrey seems
satisfied and lets go of her hair, but Sansa barely has time to draw in a
shuddering breath before he's speaking again.
"Turn to the bed," Joffrey says, picking something up from the table. Sansa
obeys, slowly, but as she turns, she sees a riding crop in Joffrey's hand.
What's that for? She wonders just as Joffrey swings it out to hit her thigh.
She puts her hand to the spot, blinking back tears of pain. She's used to the
knights striking her, as much as anyone can become used to that. But that was
impersonal, less passionate. They hit her because they were commanded to.
"I said, turn to the bed." His voice is getting louder. "You disobeyed me. You
need a lesson."
Sansa is unable to hold back a whimper. It's bad enough to be hit, but to not
be able to see the blows coming, to not know what to expect, is far worse.
"Quiet," Joffrey orders. "Put your hands on the bed."
Sansa bites her lip, trembling. Waiting. But instead of another blow, Joffrey
puts his hand on her thigh, stroking the spot where the crop struck. "Your skin
is so white," he says. "I'd rather see it bloody."
"No, no," Sansa begs. "Please don't hit me. I'll be good. I swear." He'd never
hit her before, only commanded others to do so. She's more than frightened,
now. What else is he capable of?
Joffrey puts his hand on her back, pushing her down. She hears the swish of the
crop and cringes as it stings her backside again.
"I'm going to kill your traitor brother," he says. "I'll bring you back his
head as a wedding gift. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Sansa says nothing. If
it comes to a battle, Robb will best Joffrey. He's a man, and Joffrey's just a
boy. Thwack. The crop bites into her legs again, and she sobs. "Tell me you'd
like that. Tell me that's the only gift you want. Tell me." He hits her harder,
furiously.
Her wrists hurt from gripping the sheets. She manages to choke out, "I would
like that. It would be the perfect wedding gift," and he doesn't hit her again.
She takes a breath.
"Turn around."
Sansa is quick to obey this time, although she's careful not to let the bed
brush her legs. The smile on Joffrey's face chills her. It isn't a kind smile.
"It's not as fun when I can't see your face," he says. That's all the warning
Sansa has before he hits her again. She sees the red welt rise on her legs, and
when he brings the crop back to strike her again, she puts her hands out to
ward him off. He cocks his head at her. "Put your hands down, or I'll hit them,
too. That'll hurt even more." The prospect seems to excite him. Sansa lets her
trembling hands fall to her sides, but she forces herself to stop crying and
meet his gaze. She won't react when he hits her, and then perhaps he'll stop.
It hurts, of course. It's easier when she can see what he's about to do, and it
doesn't hurt as much as the beatings she's received from the Kingsguard. That
she can compare the pain of beatings makes her feel slightly ill. Joffrey isn't
as strong as the knights, but his arm is strong, still, and it's hard to keep
from crying out. She manages by thinking of Winterfell. I'll be home soon. Ser
Dontos will find me a ship, and I'll never have to see Joffrey again. Robb will
kill him. Robb's wolf will tear out his throat. Lady would have torn out his
throat.
Just when Sansa thinks she can't bear any more, Joffrey stops. "Am I boring
you, my lady? Your attention seems to wander."
"No, Joffrey."
He yanks her hair back, wrenching her face around to his. "I have another
lesson for you," he breathes into her ear, nudging the handle of the riding
crop between her legs. She squirms away instinctively, but he doesn't relent,
only presses harder.
"W-what are you doing?" The crop is foreign and doesn't feel right against her
body, but when he presses in, it feels almost good. It doesn't hurt, like the
other things he's done.
"Watch," he commands, ignoring her question. She watches him reluctantly. She
tries to keep quiet, but a moan escapes her, and Joffrey yanks the crop away.
"Did it feel good?" He asks her, his voice unreadable.
"Yes, a little," she admits, lowering her eyes.
He pushes her chin up and leans in, then bites her neck, hard. She cries out
and tries to pull away, but he doesn't stop. Winterfell. Robb. Mother. Lady.
These thoughts still make her cry, but they take her away from Joffrey's room,
at least. If she's going to cry, she doesn't want him to be the one making her
do so. When he finally lets her go, he is smiling. He wipes one of her tears
away and licks it from his finger.
"I don't want you to feel good." His voice is hard and eager at the same time.
"I want you to hurt."
He turns to the table in the corner and picks up one of the candles, bringing
it over to Sansa. She watches, heart pounding, as the flame comes closer and
closer to her face, her hair. She thinks wildly of the story of the Hound and
wonders if Joffrey means to burn her. No, she reminds herself. He likes me
pretty. Her face, at least, is safe.
At what seems the last moment, Joffrey tips the candle so the flame grows and
wax begins to drip down from the top. Sansa hisses as the drop falls onto her
breast. Joffrey brings the candle closer and lets another drop fall, then lets
out a gusty sigh.
"This bores me." He thrusts the candle at Sansa. "Your turn."
"I-I don't understand," she stammers, shock making her slow.
"Take the candle and do what I showed you," he snaps, his voice rising.
"Please, no, please don't make me," she pleads.
Joffrey takes up the crop again and lays it sharply across Sansa's chest. She
sobs in pain. When he offers her the candle again, she closes her shaking
fingers around it. Holding it some distance from her chest, she lets wax drip
down, jerking slightly as it hits.
"No," Joffrey says. "Closer." He leans in, watching in fascination. "Hold it
closer." Sansa obeys, her hand shaking so much she worries she'll burn herself.
"Look at me," Joffrey orders. She raises her eyes just enough to see the
delight in his. The wax falls right on her nipple this time, and she winces.
"Stop," Joffrey says. Sansa exhales sharply, wanting to fling the candle away.
But she's a lady, so she sets it down gently. Is it finally over? Will he let
her leave?
"Sit on the bed. Spread your legs. I want to look at what's between them."
Sansa doesn't want to. She's afraid of what he'll do next. What he'll make her
to do herself. But she can't argue, so she does what he asks. She's always been
obedient.
With her legs spread, awkwardly open on the bed, she can't meet his eyes. Her
face is hot.
"Pick up the candle," he says. "Put it between your legs."
Sansa picks up the candle again, wishing she could throw it at Joffrey instead.
Hit him in the head, or smack him with the riding crop. Pull Hearteater from
its sheath and stab him. But she likely wouldn't be strong enough to kill him,
and then she'd be dead, anyway. She positions it awkwardly between her legs,
letting it touch her skin. The candle is cold and hard against her, but the
weight of it and the pressure remind her of pressing her legs together in bed
and rocking herself back and forth to capture an elusive sensation that she
didn't quite understand.
"No," he says. "Inside."
She shakes her head vehemently. "Please, Your Grace, I can't do that." A
candle, inside her? No, it's not right. He's supposed to go inside her, and
although she doesn't want that, either, at least it's natural.
"Yes. Do it. And think about kissing my sword when I bring it back, wet with
your brother's blood."
Sansa stares at him defiantly, and he slaps her. She brings her hand to her
cheek, sniffling.
"Don't cry. I want you to scream."
"I won't scream," she says, raising her face to his, knowing it's a mistake. He
slaps her again, harder than before. Apparently he no longer cares about his
mother's advice, that he shouldn't hit his lady. Or perhaps it's because
they're in private.
Then Joffrey takes the candle and shoves it inside her. It feels as if he's
stabbed a knife into her, and she screams and wrenches herself back, shoving
Joffrey away without thinking. When she realizes what she's done, she freezes.
There's a dangerous expression on his face.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," Sansa babbles. "It hurt, and I wasn't
thinking. I'm truly sorry, Your Grace."
"I'll forgive you this once." His words are precise. "You're my intended, so I
may be a bit more lenient with you than with common peasants. But if you raise
a hand to me again, you'll lose it," he promises. "And my lady must be whole."
Sansa nods violently, as if she still desires with her whole heart to be
Joffrey's wife and queen. The candle is still inside her. Joffrey thrusts it in
and out a few more times before backing away.
"Now you do it. I want to watch. And do it hard, or I'll do it harder."
"It's not supposed to be like this," Sansa whimpers and then stiffens, fearing
Joffrey's anger, but he only laughs at her.
"It's supposed to be however I say it's supposed to be. Now fuck yourself with
that candle while I watch, my sweet Sansa."
Sansa does as she's told. The candle is cold and hard and feels wrong inside
her. It hurts at first, and it's hard to push in, but slowly its passage eases
as some wetness spreads inside her. Joffrey sits in his chair, leaning forward,
his breathing heavy, his gaze intent. I'm not here, she tells herself. She
imagines herself in the courtyard, listening to the faint strains of a love
ballad, sewing a new gown, spring air fresh on her face.
"No." He says. "Think of me." How did he know? How? She pushes the candle in,
pulls it out. In, out, in and out. Deep inside, she feels sore, but the
movement itself isn't painful. It doesn't feel bad. It almost feels good.
Perhaps something in her face has changed, because Joffrey tells her to stop.
"Does it feel good? Do you like it?"
"I don't like it!" Sansa says quickly. It's horrible, to be forced to put
things inside herself for his amusement. "But it doesn't hurt anymore," she
admits.
Joffrey pushes her hand aside and pulls the candle from her. She shudders as it
leaves her body. "You only get to feel good if I say so," he says, cupping her
chin in one hand and pulling her face up to his. "And right now, I don't want
you to feel good. I want you to please me, and what pleases me is seeing you
afraid." He tightens his grip on her chin. She wants to shrink back, away from
him, but she can't move.
He pushes the candle into her face. "Look." It's stained red. "Lick it," he
orders, and Sansa does. She licks her maiden's blood off the end of a candle.
She's tasted blood before, of course. When she pricks her finger while sewing,
she puts it quickly in her mouth to avoid staining the fabric. But this taste
is stronger, more metallic. She thinks she's going to be ill but knows that
would only anger Joffrey, and anyway, she doesn't have time, because he's
pulling her to her feet. Before she has time to wonder what new torture he has
devised for her, he shoves her facedown onto the bed and picks up the riding
crop again. He hits her two more times and rakes his fingernails across her
buttocks, down her back, across her shoulders. "You're mine," he says. "I have
your maidenhead. No one else will want you now. You're soiled, you're used, but
you're all mine. You'd better please me, or else I won't want you, either."
Sansa knows that this is true. He may not have actually been inside her, but it
doesn't matter. If she's lain with one man, she could have lain with many.
She's no longer a maiden, and her worth, such as it was, has diminished. Her
eyes burn. At least her face is still against the bedclothes. Joffrey won't see
these tears, she thinks. But then she hears him fumbling with his trousers, and
another sob shakes her. He doesn't mean to marry me, she thinks. She should be
happy, but he means to have her anyway, it seems, and without the protection of
a title. People care what happens to the queen. After all, she might be
carrying the future king.
"Stop that. Stop crying. Are you going to cry when you're my wife, you stupid
girl?" He pulls her up. "Answer me."
"N-no. I'm not going to cry." Sansa doesn't know what he wants. Sometimes he
likes to hear her cry, likes to watch her pained expression as he hurts her.
But other times, he seems to want her calm and beautiful, like a queen. His
queen. He does still want to marry her. Why, she wonders. I was a fool to love
him. But still, he's so very handsome. If only he wouldn't hurt her. If he
hadn't killed her father. Lady wasn't his fault; that was stupid Arya's fault.
Still, Sansa would give anything to be with her stupid little sister right now,
instead of Joffrey.
"Good. Your face is ugly when you cry." He pushes her onto the bed, almost
gently. "Lie down."
Sansa doesn't move. What is he going to do?
"Now." He strokes the riding crop, and Sansa flops back. She doesn't look as he
pushes his trousers off. He clambers on top of her, pushing her legs apart.
"No, please, no," Sansa says. "You can't."
He draws back. "I can't?" His voice is very soft. Very dangerous. "I can do
whatever I want!" He puts his hand to her throat, and Sansa struggles to
breathe as his grip tightens. She forgets herself completely and tries to pry
his hand away as sparks float in front of her eyes. Her vision is blurring when
he finally lets go. "You see?" He says. "I'll do as I please."
Sansa gasps, rubbing her throat. Joffrey gives her no time to recover, pushing
a finger against her, into her, then another. "You're so tight and perfect," he
says. "Are you ready for me?"
"No," Sansa dares to say.
Joffrey draws back. "Shall I find something else to put inside you, then?
Hearteater, perhaps?"
He wouldn't. Would he? Sansa isn't sure. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I'm ready
now." She closes her eyes when he enters her, but snaps them back open when his
hands circle her throat again.
"Don't close your eyes. Look. At. Me."
She feels raw inside, and she doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to see
her pain exciting him. But she meets his gaze because she has to, trying to
keep her face calm and blank. If she has to think about him, she will. What if
they took a different path around the river that day? If they hadn't run in to
Arya and the butcher's boy? Sansa imagines that Joffrey would have taken her
hand, kissed it. Then he would have kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
Then his lips would have met hers, and he would have kissed her softly,
sweetly. She would have reached up to touch his cheek, brushed back his hair,
rested her fingertips on his shoulder. "Joffrey," she would have murmured. "My
prince, my sweet prince."
"That's better," he says, and she realizes in horror that she'd spoken aloud,
that her hand rests on the base of his neck. "Very good. But remember, I'm your
king now."
She opens her mouth to beg his pardon, but he puts his finger to her lips and
brings his face to hers. His lips brush her cheek and the corner of her mouth,
gently, just like she imagined. She relaxes slightly, and so she isn't prepared
when he bites her lip, hard.
Sansa cries out, putting up her hand but stopping just short of touching him.
Her voice is one long sob. He doesn't let up, and she wonders if he means to
bite through her lip. She's shaking and sobbing, and when she tentatively puts
her tongue to the spot, she tastes blood. She feels as if she's been betrayed
all over again.
Joffrey grunts and thrusts into her, brushing his thumb hard against her sore
lip. Sansa curls her fingers into the bed, resolving not to cry out, but he
slaps her. "Don't lie there like a dead thing," he says. "If I wanted something
dead, I'd kill a whore."
Sansa shudders, and Joffrey smiles again. "That's better," he says. "I like to
see the fear in your eyes. But don't worry. You're my lady. I'd never kill you.
As long as you don't disobey me. If you plot against me, I'll show you the same
mercy I showed your father."
Don't talk about my father, Sansa wants to shout. But she presses her lips
together instead as he begins to move again, quickly. Soon he shudders and
moans. He sounds like the boy by the river so long ago, and Sansa wants to push
him off her. That was the first time she saw his true nature, although she
doubted it then. He climbs off soon enough. Finally. It's over. She wants to go
back to her room and bathe, wash this night away.
But Joffrey sits back by her legs. He scratches the inside of her thigh and
then without warning, pushes her legs back again and drives his hand inside
her. It doesn't fit easily and he shoves, hard, as she shrieks.
"Stop, STOP, that HURTS." She doesn't care if she's giving him an order. It's
too much, he'll rip her, hurt her, it hurts, it hurts, and he's horrible, a
monster, he doesn't care. He leans forward, his hand still inside her.
"I'll put my hand inside you, or something else. Maybe my cock again. Maybe the
riding crop. Maybe the hilt of my sword. Maybe the blade. You won't know. But
you can decide. I'll give you the choice." He looks pleased with his cruel
cunning.
A choice between the pain that she knows, pain that is awful but somewhat
bearable, or pain that might be either less or infinitely worse. It's a
terrible choice, not really a choice at all. "Your hand is fine," she says in a
small voice.
"It's fine?"
"It feels very good, Joffrey," she lies, trembling, but remembering to use his
name, as he's instructed her.
"Good. I like to know that I'm pleasing my lady," he says, pushing his hand
deeper. She doesn't scream this time, but her breathing is ragged. He bites her
breast, hard. His teeth leave marks in the tender skin, and he pants in
excitement as she clenches her hands against the pain.
When he finally draws his hand out of her, she sees smears of blood. There's
blood on his sheets, his hands, and on his manhood, which juts out from his
body.
"Perhaps I'll have you again," he says, examining the blood on his hand. But
there's a knock on the door.
"Don't move," he says to Sansa, taking his robe from the back of the chair and
wrapping it around his shoulders. He ties the belt and calls, "Enter."
Sansa shrinks into the bed, wishing she dared pull the blankets over herself,
hide her naked, marred body from whoever enters. But Joffrey has commanded her
not to move.
It's the Hound. He looks straight ahead at Joffrey. He has to know Sansa is in
the bed, but his expression betrays no knowledge of the fact that anyone other
than Joffrey is present. "The queen regent has news of the battle and asks that
you attend her, if convenient, Your Grace."
Sansa wonders briefly if it's news of her family. She wants to care if they're
all right, wants to go home to them, but her mind is overwrought, and she
simply closes her eyes and waits.
"See to my lady, Hound." Joffrey says. "Take her to her chambers. Sansa, my
sweet," he calls to her.
"Yes, Your Grace?" She's barely able to muster the strength to reply.
"You've pleased me. I wish to see you again tomorrow evening, or the next night
if you cannot get away. I can be patient. I suppose it's better if my mother
doesn't know about our meetings for now." Joffrey dresses as he speaks.
"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa whispers. Pleasing him is good, but not if another
night of this is her reward. Perhaps she'll stay close to the queen. But that
will only anger Joffrey.
"Are you excited, my lady? Excited to feel me inside you again?" He's careless
in front of the Hound, or perhaps he wishes the Hound to know every detail. The
soreness between Sansa's legs grows as she considers her response, but of
course, there's only one thing she can say.
"Yes, Your Grace. I'm looking forward to it."
He beams at her. The most fearful thing of all is how well his expression hides
his monstrousness. Then Joffrey sweeps from the room. As soon as the heavy door
shuts behind him, Sansa snatches up the blanket and burrows beneath it.
"Leave," she snaps to the Hound. "Wait outside. I don't care if you have to
follow me back, but get out."
He bows his head and obeys without a word.
It takes Sansa some time to dress. Her lip bleeds still, and she's also bloody
between her legs. She folds one of her stockings and presses it into her
underclothing. Each brush of fabric against her skin makes her wince, but
finally her dress is on and fastened. It hurts to bend down, so she leaves her
other stocking off and slips into her shoes. Taking careful steps to the door,
she knocks. The Hound opens it from the outside and leads her back to her
chamber silently. Luckily, they pass no one else on the way. She walks stiffly
and says nothing, thinks of nothing but the bath she wants to immediately
submerse herself in (drown herself in?). In her room, the maid is waiting.
"I want a bath," Sansa tells her. "Very hot." She waits while the water is
brought and the bath prepared. She's lucky tonight that the maid is rude, that
she sails out of the room without offering to help Sansa with her dress. A
better maid would have insisted and seen the marks across her body.
Sansa takes her dress off again and climbs into the bath, almost crying again
as the water touches her body. She shifts in the bathtub carefully, trying to
keep her weight on one side or the other, flinching as she remembers the swish
of Joffrey's riding crop through the air, the thwack as it landed on her bare
skin, the stings of pain. Some dried wax still clings to her shoulder and
chest. She picks a piece off one nipple. Suddenly she starts shaking and can't
stop. Flecks of blood rise in the bath, and she swirls them away with her hand.
She realizes that if Joffrey's gotten her with child, she'll never be free of
him. Sansa had thought things couldn't get worse, but she was a fool.
She rises from the bath and dresses. She'll go to the godswood. There's nothing
she can do but pray. Pray for strength, for a ship to go home. Pray for her
mother to heal her hurts, brush her hair, tell her that she's home now, that
nothing bad will ever happen to her again.
Fin.
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