Those of you who follow me on tumblr may have heard that I planned on writing this fic. It's the crackiest fic I've ever wrote, but I just couldn't help myself. I'm not exactly sure of how long it's going to be, but around 10 chapters perhaps? Hopefully not more. We'll see though. This is going to be pretty dubcon, so be warned!

I hope those who give it a try will enjoy it! If you do, please let me know and leave me a nice comment! :D

PS: the vocabulary used to describe magic in this fic is very, like very heavily inspired by Anne Bishop's Black Jewels series.

Sitting on her four-poster bed with her back leaned against a pile of plush pillows, Sansa was studying for the math test she would have on Monday. While she tried all she could to keep her mind on the task at hand, she was too nervous to focus properly, had been distracted all evening. The thought of what she would soon be attempting was far too disturbing and sent her heart racing at the most random moments. Whenever it came, she would wiggle and bite hard at her lip, but then she would force herself to take a deep breath and resume reading her notes. She had taken her decision and would not turn back, yet that didn't mean that she should not do her homework and prepare properly for her exam first.

Once Sansa gathered she was as ready for her test as she was ever likely to get in her present state, she stood from her bed and stored her notebook into her school bag by her writing desk. The old wooden floor of her family's Victorian manor creaked under her feet as she walked to the tall, finely carved wooden free-standing mirror there was in a corner of her room. She stopped just in front of it to gaze at herself and couldn't help but cringe at the view of her. She seemed terrified and so very childish in the white knee-length frilly nightgown she wore. Arya hated it and often commented that she looked like she had just stepped straight out of a cheesy period novel when she sported it. While Sansa liked it exactly for that reason, it didn't do much to boost her confidence at the moment. She wondered for an instant if she should not change, yet she shortly surmised worrying about clothes was foolish in her circumstances. As if the forces she planned on calling upon tonight would care about that… It was ridiculous!

It was really dark outside, a moonless night. Sansa had left the curtains open and as she glanced out the window, she could only barely distinguish the shape of the tall oak tree that flanked the house. The sky was as black as tar, exactly as it ought. Really, this was the perfect night to do what she intended.

Kneeling before the antique chest of drawers she had inherited from her great-great-grandmother, Sansa opened the bottom drawer and moved aside all the tee-shirts and hoodies stored inside. Underneath the clothes, she found a large leather-bound book and carefully took it out. It was still dusty even though she had removed the worst of it when she secretly borrowed it a week ago and she blew on it in hope to make it a little better. The book had apparently not been consulted very often during the many centuries it had been in the Stark family's basement occult library, but it was not really surprising. The type of magic it dealt with was extremely rarely practiced in Westeros and not very well seen either. Every young witch was warned against attempting to learn any of it at one point or another by her parents - even Sansa had been, for all the good it had done.

On the grimoire's cover was a large pentagram and just underneath it, the word 'Evocation' was written in bold gothic letters. With shaking fingers, Sansa opened it and flipped through the age-old vellum pages in search of the chapter that interested her.

I can still turn back, the thought came unbidden, same as it had so many times over the last few days, yet Sansa shook her head, resolute. I need to do this, she reminded herself. I have no choice. It was that or always remain as flat and unresponsive to magic as any regular mortal. The prospect was intolerable!

Images of her whole life, of the frustration that had been hers for so long now, flashed before her eyes then. First, she saw Arya, her younger sister, getting more and more powerful as the years went on, then the other young witches of her congregation learning to master an increasing number of complicated spells even as Sansa watched in envy and finally, her mother's gentle smile that couldn't quite hide her disappointment when she ultimately came to terms with the fact that Sansa had no Skill to speak of.

"It's not your fault," the woman had said, before hugging her.

Sansa sniffed at the memory, tears welling in her eyes all over again. It was not her fault indeed if she was born with no talent in the dark art, however, the notion only made it worse. If she had been to blame at least, she could have done something about it, but as it was, none of her efforts had ever been worth a thing!

For as long as she had not had her period, there still had been hope and Sansa and her mother had held on to it. After all, women did not start gaining true power until they had had their fist blood and every witch family counted at least a member who had been nearly without Skill before puberty but started attainting her strength only after it had kicked in. Sadly, Sansa proved not to be one of those. She had had her first period at twelve, four years ago, and while she had gained a woman's figure by now and was just as tall as her mother, she still could not cast a spell to save her life. She had enough sensitivity to feel when magic was being used and recognise a witch's psychic scent, but that was it.

In that, she was exactly like the males of her family. As powerless as a man, she reflected bitterly. That hurt! As a female, she was meant to be a witch, same as all her women ancestors had been before her for as long as there had been Starks and Tullys in this world. But that was apparently not her destiny…

A born perfectionist, Sansa excelled in everything she attempted. She had the best grades among her classmates at school, could dance, play the piano, sing beautifully, sew exquisite dresses, bake excellent cakes, draw and paint to perfection… And yet for all of that, no matter how hard she worked at it, she could not become a witch as was her birthright! In the meantime, Arya who had terrible grades, was rebellious and often disobeyed their parents, who sung horribly, did not play any musical instrument and preferred to run the streets with her shady friends than to get involved in any team sport had shown great potential ever since she was but a child and had only kept getting more talented as the years went on. Though it shamed her to admit it, yes, Sansa was jealous. It was so unfair!

And then, the icing on the cake, on Monday Joffrey had dumped Sansa for Margaery! For some reason, that made her feel even more like a failure. All week, she had been subjected to the sight of them as they walked around school, hand in hand, and people had whispered behind her back, curious to see her reaction to this new most popular couple. It especially hurt in that Margaery was the only other young witch at school apart from her and Arya. Or perhaps more exactly, apart from Arya. Sansa was no a true witch, though it pained her to admit it.

Joffrey and Margaery both came from great witch families, the Baratheons and Tyrells, and were part of the same congregation as the Starks and so they had all known each other ever since they were very young. When she and Joffrey had started dating six months ago, Sansa had been convinced she had found her one true love. They had so much in common, she had believed, and Joffrey was alike her in that he lacked the normal sensitivity to magic people with their blood normally had. Even for a male, he was considered flat and would not have known that a spell was being cast right beside him even if the power of hundred witches had been channelled in its weaving. But Sansa had thought that this meant that he could understand her, that he wouldn't care about her lack of talent in the Craft. They should have supported each other.

She'd been proved wrong when on Monday, he'd told her that as a Baratheon, he could no longer date someone as powerless as her. Margaery and he had fallen in love over the week-end and she was now his girlfriend instead of Sansa. Joffrey was ecstatic at the prospect of all the ways she could use her talent for him. Having a skilful girlfriend would be very convenient as she could do all sort of things for him, such as, for example, cast spells to make his pencil move on its own and write the correct answer during tests, or help him run faster, jump higher and throw the ball farther when he played football in the school team. Sansa could do none of that and he was all too happy to be rid of her. Also, Sansa was a prude and had still refused to have sex with him even after all those months they'd been together. Perhaps I should have agreed to sleep with him, she regretted, though she knew he would probably have left her anyway. He'd told her that at sixteen, she was getting old to be a virgin. But she had been too scared, which was laughable seeing what she was about to do…

I don't have to do this, Sansa reminded herself yet another time as she turned the centuries-old vellum pages. At long last, she found the chapter she had been searching for and set down the book onto the floor by her side. To Conjure a Demon, it said in those nearly unreadable gothic letters. I don't have to.

And still no matter how scared she was at the idea of trying her hand at this ancient and foreign dark magic ritual that was Evocation, Sansa had taken her decision and she would not back down. She had had enough of not being good enough and this was the only solution to her lack of talent she could think of. A witch could gain a lot of strength from an alliance with a devil, or so it was said… And tonight was the perfect occasion to do it, one that she wouldn't get again any time soon. Mum and Dad had left for the weekend to visit relatives outside of town and brought Bran and Rickon along. Arya was sleeping at a friend's house and would only return home tomorrow afternoon. Both Robb and Jon were away at college at the other side of Westeros and certainly not to be expected. The house was completely empty, something which did not occur very frequently, and on top of that, the night was moonless and dark, exactly as the grimoire recommended. Demons did not like sunlight and as the moon took its luminosity from the sun, even its wan glow was to be avoided when attempting Evocation, Sansa had learned.

Of course, she wasn't sure if it would work. It was a total shot in the dark, a last, desperate attempt… The thought of failure was almost as frightening as that of a demon materialising in her bedroom. There was no guaranty that Sansa would achieve her goal. Why would she manage this when even the most basic spells had never been in her reach? Still, one way or another, it was worth giving it a go. If she succeeded, her life would change forever and no one would ever think of her as that feeble little false-witch and snigger behind her back.

After having reread a few times the passage about the preparation for Evocation in her grimoire, Sansa stood up and cleared a large space at the centre of her bedroom. Just in case, she locked the door and then, headed to her closet where she had hidden her supply. She had found some very fine white sand at a gardening store not so far from school which she was sure would be suitable for a summoning. After having opened the sand bag, she poured the content on the floor, slowly walking about her room as she did and letting it fall in the shape of a large pentagram. With a broom, she pushed around some of it afterwards until the figure was nearly perfect. Getting her hands on black candles had been quite a challenge, but she had found some at a punk-gothic clothing store downtown. She put one on each point of the pentagram and lit them with a lighter. Incense was burning on her writing desk, a mix of sandalwood and patchouli which had been recommended in the grimoire. Sansa was ready, or at least, as ready as one could ever be as they prepared to open a breach between this world and the Seven Hells…

The pace of her pulse hastening, she turned off the light and picked up the ancient book from the floor. It was dark in her room, but thanks to the candles, she could still read the page the grimoire was opened to well enough. It also didn't hurt that she knew the words she had to recite by heart.

"High lords of the Seven Hells!" she started, her voice thin and unsure.

Sansa could barely believe what she was doing, yet if she was to attempt Evocation, she had best try to sound a little more confident. She would never convince a devil to come forth from the Seven Hells with a scared little girl's voice! Clearing her throat, she went on:

"Send me one among you to be my slave and master. Give me the power that derives from your eternal flames! Let him become me and I him."

This had sounded much better and, with a little more self-assurance, Sansa walked to the centre of the pentagram, still holding the large book in her trembling arms. As she did, sand stayed stuck against the sole of her bare feet and she glanced down with concern, relief flowing over her when she noted she had not messed up her pentagram too much.

"Sever those tethers that keep him in the Seven Hells and free him so that we be forever bound. Show me the face of Hell that I know what death is like before my time," she continued, her voice louder now. In the silence of the empty house, it seemed to echo and the overall impression was very eerie.

Then, Sansa lowered the book to the ground and fished out the large kitchen knife she had put in her pocket as she prepared herself for her summoning. "I offer myself in exchange for the power I ask of you. May my blood serve as a symbol of my sacrifice."

With that, she removed the plastic edge protector, threw it to the floor and pressed the well sharpened blade into her palm. Closing her eyes, Sansa let out a whine at the acute pain she was at once assailed with, but she sucked in her breath and kept pushing, for she knew that only a few drops of blood wouldn't be enough to sway the lords of the Seven Hells to grant her the favour she was asking. Her face was soaked with tears by the time she surmised the cut was deep enough. Opening her eyes in slits, she gasped in shock and dropped the knife from the moment her gaze fell on the bloody mess that was her hand. Sansa had never liked the sight of blood and for an instant, she seriously feared she might faint. The room was spinning around her, still eventually, it grew stable again and she resumed her incantation in a weak voice.

"Evig em rewop revo eht luos fo nam. Ekam em regnorts naht yna rehto chtiw. Taht eno fo uoy eb dnuob ot em," Sansa recited. The words sounded even stranger now that she spoke them aloud. There was no way she knew for sure if she pronounced them well, nevertheless she followed the grimoire's instruction and carried on.

"Evig em rewop revo eht luos fo nam. Ekam em regnorts naht yna rehto chtiw. Taht eno fo uoy eb dnuob ot em," she said once again, her voice breaking a little at the end.

Sansa's hand was throbbing unbearably and she kept it closed in a fist and pressed against her chest, her other hand covering it. Shutting her eyes, she repeated the litany a few more times, trying to ignore the warm feel of blood spilling through her fingers.

"Evig em rewop revo eht luos fo nam. Ekam em regnorts naht yna rehto chtiw. Taht eno fo uoy eb dnuob ot em.

Evig em rewop revo eht luos fo nam. Ekam em regnorts naht yna rehto chtiw. Taht eno fo uoy eb dnuob ot em.

Evig em rewop revo eht luos fo nam. Ekam em regnorts naht yna rehto chtiw. Taht eno fo uoy eb dnuob ot em."

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but Sansa would have sworn a soft, warm breeze was blowing through her chamber. Though it was tremendously subtle, she could also discern something that resembled a witch's psychic scent, or at least she thought she could. It seemed to become a bit more present as she repeated the incantation a sixth and final time.

"Evig em rewop revo eht luos fo nam. Ekam em regnorts naht yna rehto chtiw. Taht eno fo uoy eb dnuob ot em," she said, louder than previously, before opening her eyes.

To her surprise, the candles had died out, but apart from that, there was nothing. Sansa waited in absolute obscurity, listening to the wail of the violent wind that blew outside and to the clicks the branches of the tall oak tree did as they hit the slate roof. The old house creaked under the gust's pressure, the sounds coming from its every corner.

Gazing nervously around herself, Sansa searched for a sign – anything! – that would tell her her Evocation had been successful. There was none. Even the psychic scent she had believed she sensed moments ago had all but disappeared. Could it really have only been her imagination?

About a minute passed and still nothing happened. What was I expecting? Sansa mused, anguish and bitterness overcoming her in the blink of an eye. I have no Skill. Why would that have ever worked? Why?! Then, inadvertently, she clenched her wounded hand and let out a cry of pain at the pang that traversed it. Oh, and how will I ever explain that cut? she wondered in despair, glancing down at it. Tears filled her eyes even as small, pitiful whimpers escaped her lips.

"That was all for nothing. How stupid of me… I am worthless. Worthless!" she exclaimed aloud.

Sobs shaking her, Sansa was about to start crying well and truly when something like an explosion of energy sent her flying to the ground. She landed on her back with a yelp and, holding her aching, bleeding hand against her chest, she gasped loudly as her room was transformed into a real-life furnace in less than a heartbeat. Fire was everywhere, licking the walls and furniture and rising all the way to the ceiling. Panic-stricken, Sansa propped herself on her elbows to better take in the surreal scene that played out around her. Yet even before she had time to truly process what was going on, the flames diminished in intensity until they had vanished completely. Only the candles' wicks remained lit, their small flames giving off enough light for the soot marks that had been left all over her chamber to be visible.

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and Sansa coughed and blinked even as fear stronger than she had ever experienced gripped her. The psychic scent she had noticed earlier was back with a vengeance. It wholly filled the room, was omnipresent to the point of being oppressive and to give Sansa the impression that she was being invaded and scrutinised. Her breathing coming in short and ragged, she watched with wide eyes as a large, dark shadow slowly took form at the centre of her sand pentagram.

"Who dares call me forth from the Seven Hells?" a deep, raspy voice echoed through the room.

Sansa shrunk back at once, her heart hammering in her chest and whole body shivering. It has worked, she reflected with incredulity. No matter how much effort she had put in it, deep down, she had never genuinely believed her summoning would lead to anything. Yet looking at the manlike creature that was appearing in front of her, there was no doubting it anymore. There was no joy in this success though, only horror and a clear, chilling feeling that she had just made the biggest mistake of her life…