Author's note: I don't know what's wrong with me... I'm so sorry Sansa and GRRM.
"One's dignity may be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but it can never be taken away unless it is surrendered." ― Michael J. Fox
Sansa looked so pretty when she cried. Her pretty face turned as red her hair, as it twisted in anguish. Her tears shrieking down her face and stained her fine silks as they dripped of her dainty chin. Her mouth, as beautiful and ruddy as a pomegranate, would redden until it was sinful and she worried her lips between her teeth.
Whenever she tried to talk through her sorrow, Sansa would flick her tongue out and moisten her swollen lips until they were glistening—like finely polished rubies catching the firelight. After she sucked in a shaky breath, only after, did Sansa try… and, try she did… to speak.
Her voice would be so unsteady and pitchy; like the sweetest of songs as it echoed throughout the spacious throne room. Sansa pleading and begging was broken and garbled; her words tangled in the moistness of her mouth as it flexed into shapes that didn't quite match up with her words.
She would be on her knees; knees that were never seen but always thought of as being pale, freckled, and without scars; just like she was then. The skin would be supple and soft to the touch and it would break out in Gooseflesh at the slightest touch. Her delicate flesh: from her bowed knees to her quavering thighs; from her elegant long neck and her curve of her alabaster back… all of it… would color crimson—like the finest spirits the Seven Kingdoms had to offer—if stroked roughly by calloused palms and fingers.
Her sweat-slickened palms would slide across the carpet as her fingers fidgeted and curled around the fine fur.
Sansa's hands were just as dainty as the rest of her. Long pale fingers and pretty, long nails. She was a master at needlework but it seemed that her hands would be much better suited for other things…
Her beautiful, crystalline irises were drowning in tears; tears that spilled forth with every wild shake of her head and every shout from her mouth.
Her hair fell into her face every so often; when it lingered there longer than necessary, the thought that came immediately to mind was that it needed to be cut. Cropped off and done away with so that it would never obscure her sullen countenance from view.
But, then that would be a waste for Sansa's tresses were so, so very pretty; red as a thriving blaze and smooth as velvet as it fell in sanguine spirals down beyond her frail shoulders.
She, more often than not, wore her hair in these stupid, intricate braids—and if not that, she wore it in an ugly twist on the top of her head. Along with these elegant hairstyles, she wore pretty dresses that made it all too apparent her maturing frame. Fine fabrics the color of the deepest seas stretched out across her widening hips and budding bosoms. It was maddening to watch the way her body shifted in her gown.
When she bowed her head as she knelt before her King, Joffrey's breath would catch for a moment and his chest would flare with rage and something else… something… indescribably worse.
Joffrey would adjust in his seat upon the iron throne and then command one of his men to inflict his brutal will upon her; eager to let out the wild energy within but too proud to come off his throne to hit his betrothed.
Whether her pretty hair was pulled, or her face was slapped until her cheeks were mottled with a deep flush of irritation; it was all thrilling.
If Joffrey felt bold, he would order his guards to strip her and without hesitation they would snatch her gown almost from her body. The threads screeched, as if they were in agony. The seams split open like a deep wound. Humiliated, Sansa would cry out and clutch her reddened face.
As Sansa's hair was pulled hard and her head was yanked back at the force; her neck bore for her King's hungry eyes—at the sight of her shame, Joffrey would give a silent groan of wicked delight.
Nothing would stop him. He would have Sansa. Even when the Tyrell girl asked to be wed to him; he could think of having Sansa no matter what.
He would make her cry. He would pull her hair. He would slap her face.
Not his men but he. And then, he would do something to her that he would never ask of them; he would make her bleed.
Sansa would bleed and scream his name. And he would wring her dry of her tears and life's blood, and afterwards, when she was all dried up; he would break her.
The thought of watching her crumble before him made his blood boil in his veins.
Sansa had fallen for Prince Joffrey; though, he was deceitful, short-tempered, and spoiled. But she could never have her petulant prince, for he was King Joffrey now. And, not only was he an angry little liar; but he was depraved and vicious, as well.
What did Sansa ever do to deserve a man as cruel as he? She was too sweet; too naïve. She could not understand the world, even if she had been taught of it for several life times. It was his duty, as the king, to show her how horrid the world, the Seven Kingdoms, and all who inhabited it were.