All the characters and the setting belong to the brilliant George R. R. Martin. Dialogues have been lifted from the book to keep the scenes true to the story.

Joffrey did not want to hurt her. She was too fragile, like a thin piece of glass. He wished he had better control of himself.

She was too beautiful, even comelier than her mother. And what was he? A stag with a temper of a lion. A monster he might be too. And now, she will be married to her dwarf uncle. The thought amused and angered him. That Halfman will regret this, he thought. Partly, he was angry with his grandfather too for this was all his thinking.

Sansa walked with such grace you could almost not notice the sad look in her eyes. Almost. Joffrey put on his smug face. That was what he was known for. He was showing them he was still the monster they knew. He wanted to frighten them. Show them he was powerful and invincible.

"I'm your father today." Joffrey had announced.

"You're not." She flared. "You'll never be."

Pain and anger shot through him. She really hates me, doesn't she? "I am. I'm your father and I can marry you to whoever I like. To anyone." I'd marry you to me if it wasn't for this arrangement. "You'll marry the pig boy if I say so, and bed down with him in the sty." He feigned amusement. "Or maybe I should give you to Ilyn Payne, would you like him better?"

"Please, Your Grace," she begged. "If you ever loved me even a little bit," Oh, that I did. "don't make me marry your–"

"–uncle?" His uncle, Tyrion Lannister, entered through the sept doors. "Your Grace," he told Joffrey. "Grant me a moment alone with Lady Sansa, if you would be so kind?"

He was about to say no. He didn't want to leave Sansa. Not just yet and definitely not with this Imp. But his mother shot him a sharp look and he had to follow.

Joffrey was getting a little too restless. He wanted to hear their conversation, what they were talking about.

"Sit still, Joffrey." His mother told him. Shut up, woman. You do not command the king.

Joffrey saw Sansa placing her hand in Tyrion's. It was a moment of shock and jealousy. She's holding her hand, he thought as if it wasn't obvious.

The ceremony passed. He could see her crying though no one else seemed to notice. He felt sorry for her, for himself, for being so weak and monstrous and not being ale to do anything about it.

As the king, he took the place of Eddard Stark. His hands came to her shoulder's and fumbled the clasp of her cloak. He was looking at her face, her hair, every part of her was beautiful. Unable to control himself, he landed one of his hands on her breast and fave a light squeeze. The clasp opened. He took her maiden's cloak and went away with a monstrous grin, just to show something to the people.