** I try my best to stay as in character as possible. I wrote this in a few short hours, and I would appreciate any feedback on the progression, character development, etc. Please read and review. I appreciate it greatly.

In a quiet cell, deep in the dungeon beneath King's Landing, a red-haired child wept. The silver threading of her gown, nearly luminescent in the low light, was damp with tears and wet black dirt. Hushing, gentle cries cooed from her swollen throat. Her hard tears were gone, torn from her like so many screams. Her throat bled raw, her arms spattered with half-moon impressions, the flesh gouged by her tiny white nails. Pain was numb. Her very core was a sucking wound, black, hollow, deep, radiating lead, coursing metal through her veins. The weight of her own body was crushing, killing her. She lie where she'd been thrown, arms surrounding her pounding, heavy skull.

Hatred, black as coal, swam behind her eyes, in her thoughts. It entwined and throttled her frantic heart. As the silence of the dungeon rang around her, she began to whisper prayers, not of death, but of life. Life for her father. Life for her sister. Life for Winterfell, and her loved ones waiting. Her sobs rose hoarsely as her own life entered her prayers.

She knew she would die.

How could she not? Joffrey had proved himself capable of unfathomable cruelty. His impulses collared him like a dog, chaining him to his temper and his sickest dreams. Sansa knew he was not a fitting king. He could not be a just king. Nor a wise king. Nor a strong king. He was no lion, but a viper. Joffrey would be a cruel king, with a blindsiding bite.

Or perhaps he was mad, like Aegon Targyrean.

She hated to think him mad. Madness deserved pity, not rage. And Joffrey was undeserving of her pity. Sansa wondered miserably if she was deserving now, if the city churned with her name.

Poor girl.

Daughter of the traitor.

A shame to lose an honorable ally.

She tried to force the imagination from her mind, for what use was it to wonder what others thought of her now? She would no longer be alive in a few short hours. Her head would roll as her father's had; to her feet.

To recall the scene was too much. For the first time in hours Sansa moved, only to vomit hotly. Her throat pulsed, contracted, pulsed again, forcing the remains of her morning meal from her quivering belly. Her hair was soured and sopping. She cared not. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand of the King; her father had been executed in front of her that day. She would soon join him. Joffrey had promised her that.

It was difficult to determine if she wished to live or not. Before her lay two paths, neither desirable. Her first path, to live, was to accept Joffrey as her husband, as her king. To share her bed with him. To bare his sons. She would let him touch her, and hurt her, and when a mother she became, he would hurt her children. Misery dawn til dusk. No love, for which she had always wanted. No happiness, that she had always craved. Was an empty life still a life? Wed to Joffrey was no life worth living.

The second path led to death, a comfort in comparison. That was her promised path.

Sansa screamed. Her eyes reeled between Cersei and Joffrey, who moved rapidly, to Sir Ilyn and her father, whose movements crawled. Her father looked at her, and she roared louder, her strength building as she fought fiercely to move to his side. Her ears and cheeks burned and her eyes stung. Eddard looked away and she wailed, weak, knowing his fight was over. Hers would never begin.

Sir Ilyn had come to stand beside his target now. He had drawn his longsword. It shone in the sun. Sansa thrashed and howled, her heart hammering in her chest. Joffrey looked serene. Cersei's revulsion was plain. Behind her father, the Hound met her frantic, rolling gaze. Her father had bowed his head.

Sansa could not make herself look away. As Sir Ilyn hoisted the blade she tried to turn her face, drag her eyelids shut, gouge out her own eyes. And yet they were transfixed as the sword swung down and took her father's head in a shower of red. The roaring crowd and her own screaming seemed suddenly insignificant, as the thump of her father's body reached her ears. He had slumped over, never to rise again.

It was at this moment Sansa tore free of the guard. She wanted to rush to his body, but found her path blocked by Joffrey. Consumed by rage, her hands grasped his throat, and she squeezed lethally. Eyes of ice met his as he tried to gasp, her thumbs popping into his windpipe. The air around them seemed thick and shimmery, hot, tangible. Sound seemed to touch her skin and wrap around her. Sansa wondered why it was taking so long for him to die.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Sansa found herself trapped against the broad breastplate of the Hound. His fingers wound in her hair, forcing her neck further than imaginable. Somewhere near her Joffrey was snarling.

"I want her head, now!"

The crowd below seemed uncertain how to react. The din of encouragement had faded slightly. Sansa's eyes slowly crept toward Joffrey. Was she to be executed? His long, jeweled finger shook as he thrust it at her, his barked orders lost on her ears. She paid more attention to his throat. Pale and unscathed, to her naked eye. He was clutching it in intervals. She felt the Hound grasp her shoulder, an iron grip she couldn't shrug off. She glanced at him, and seeing his bemused expression, thrashed and fought to free herself.

"Stop this at once." Cersei's voice, thin as glass, cut through the air. She was beside Joffrey now, her hand firmly wrapped around his trembling wrist.
"This has gone far enough. Eddard Stark met his end, today. Let his death be a message to the realm." She addressed the crowd, whose chatter died quickly. "Traitors will not go unpunished." Joffrey was quiet, his eyes burning into Cersei's face. His anger was molten, just under the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest disturbance. Cersei sensed this. Her voice address the Hound. "See to it that Sansa is taken to the dungeon."

Sansa let her eyes fall to her father for the last time. From her position she could see his neck clearly, cleanly severed. Blood still seeped from the wound. Had such little time passed? She had only been fatherless for seconds, but she felt aged beyond her years.

She allowed the Hound to escort her away from the scene. Joffrey's voice rang out behind her as she marched deftly toward the castle.

"You'll pay for this, bitch. I'll have your head tonight."

Over the sound of her whimpering, Sansa heard heavy footfalls. Tonight had come, as promised.

I plan on updating this story very quickly, but the more reviews and readers I get the faster I will be motivated to post them. Please leave a review and let me know what you feel so far. Thank you.