authorsnote: You may be asking the question; prettylittlepetticoats ... why are you writing more one shots when you have three (yes three I know) GOT fanfics to update? Good question, my answer? ... this came into my head and I couldn't stop myself.

Okay, so more specifically earlier I was on a GOT rematch and I was making my way through each episode. I get to the scene in which dear departed Joff is showing Sansa Ned's severed head (le sob), and I thought ... what if she did push him? Well, this is the result of that. Check it out! Please review/fav and all that jazz, I love to know what people think of my writing!

Song Recommendations: Rains of Castamere (GOT version - the upbeat version), Walk Through The Fire (From BTVS).

I touch the fire & it freezes me,

I look into and its black.

Why can't I feel? My skin should crack and peel.

I want the fire back...

-x-

It's a sharp sting on her face, pain blossoming up her cheek and over to her nose. She felt the trickle of blood at her lip and swallowed a mouthful of the stuff, the copper taste harsh down her throat. It made her feel sick, but she didn't gag, nor flinch, nor cry out in pain at the blow. Instead she took it, knowing it would mark, knowing later she'd cry for the dull pain, cry into her pillow as she is forced to sleep on one side. Still, she didn't react, she wouldn't react; she would not give Joffrey what he wanted; to see her hurting, to see the pain he could cause her.

Pain, it was a weird concept, the concept that someone could hurt so much, and yet carry on. Joffrey had caused her so much pain and yet she had to carry on, she could not show him what he did to her, that would truly cause her to break.

To this day she can't believe she used to think of him as her prince. She used to see him as all her dreams come true, her white Knight that would carry her off into the sun. She prayed and prayed her Father would accept the betrothal, begged her Mother to make it so, cried to Cersei when there was a chance it could be called off. She had wanted nothing more than to marry him, her Southern prince. Oh, how foolish she had been.

Since then she had seen his real face, his true self, and it repulsed her. He was no fair Knight as he had pretended to be at Winterfell, as she had believed him to be, as he had acted. He wasn't brave or handsome or kind; he was evil, cowardly, ugly on the inside. She hated him, hated him so much it made her blood boil; no, not boil; she was of the North, her blood was as cold as ice when she was around him, pumping through her veins, making her cold, freezing from the inside out. It showed in her eyes, the icy blue that kept her safe, her walls up, protecting her from the deceit of the South; that icy blue was accusing, it was a sign of her cold anger.

Sansa had never hated anyone before. She had hated life in Winterfell, longed for the South (she cursed herself nightly for how idiotic she had been... she had loved the North, but bee clouded by the stories of the South, when would she learn? Life is not a song), but she had never hated a single person. Yes, she had looked down on people, disliked girls who beat her in sewing class, disliked Arya often for making fun of her, but hatred? No, she had never felt such a thing before. She did now though, she knew down to her bones, in her heart and soul that she hated Joffrey, hated Cersei, hated them all – but the King (though he was hardy worthy of such a title) took the number one spot. He was responsible for her Father's death; she didn't think she could hate anyone more.

Of course, she hated herself too. If she hadn't gone to Cersei … she kept herself awake every night thinking about it, consumed with guilt. The only person she hated more than Joffrey was herself, as she knew she was responsible for her Father's demise, it was her fault, there was no question. Hatred was a horrible thing and yet in Sansa's world few people deserved it, those that did, truly did.

She heard a cough behind her then and she was jerked away from her thoughts. She was much quieter now days, consumed in her own thoughts, consumed with her own mind. She rarely spoke unless spoken too, rarely did anything unless commanded so. She knew she was a hostage, nothing more than a pawn to threaten her Brother with. She hoped Robb didn't give into the threats, if she had to die to ensure revenge on the Lannister's… well, it seemed like a small price to pay. She prayed every night he would come and rescue her, but she knew how unlikely that was; even if Robb won, she was sure the Lannister's would kill her as a last act of spite. Besides, Sansa would rather Robb won rather than give in to save her.

Again, she'd become consumed in her thoughts, and slowly she turned away from Ser Meryn and back to Joffrey who was glaring at her. She wanted to laugh; he didn't scare her; he was a coward. He had no power other than what being King gave him; it was his men that scared her, the Kingsguard who had bruised her, beaten her… they were the ones who made her flinch and look down, not Joffrey, he was nothing, and it felt good to be defiant to him. So, little felt good to Sansa nowadays, she had to cling onto what did feel good.

She glanced down as he turned his gaze away from her, and then it was as though her mind was wiped clean, all those thoughts, the blame, the guilt, the planning, the endless rounds of speculation… had been wiped from her mind. As she looked down and her brain processed what she was seeing, as Joffrey was looking away, only one clear thought was singing through her mind. It was almost a relief, to have only one simple thought swimming around, as she lifted her head, her gaze turning hard as she turned it on the golden prince who was responsible for all her suffering.

One clear thought, one clear singing thought that propelled her legs forward across the walk way, that had her hands shaking by her side, but her eyes fixed forward with determination.

'Push him'

And so, she did, it was easy really, too easy to make a King plummet to his death.

She was quick across the walk way, the Kingsguard hadn't even noted her moving; they didn't see her as a threat, the little Stark hostage who they heard crying at night, covered in bruises from head to toe. They didn't see her as anything other than a scared little girl, and that was to her advantage as she stepped forwards, her eyes fixed on his crown, a crown he was not worthy of wearing. That crown didn't belong on his head, it never had and never would, and she wanted not just to knock it off, but to knock him off the platform, to see him plummet to his death, to see him weak and powerless.

Sansa had never been a malicious person, never one to enjoy violence, and yet now? Now with the prospect of Joffrey's death right in front of her? Gods, she felt a rush of adrenaline through her veins at the very thought of pushing him.

He didn't even notice, turning his gaze back to her at the last possible second, he looked confused, and then confusion gave way to fear as he saw the malice in her eyes, the cold, horrible anger as she shoved her arms forward with all the might she could muster. The King barely had time to scream, a resounding shriek leaving his lips as he toppled, unable to grab onto anything. He fell in an arc so perfect, his cloak billowing out behind him, it was like he was suspended in the air, but the fall was somewhat short, and it lasted only seconds before he hit the floor, a resounding crack and the explosion of blood around his head confirming his death.

Blood fanned around his golden hair like its own kind of crown, red, almost brown on the grey cobbled stones of the street below. His real crown had toppled from his head, rolling away from him, bouncing across the floor, a little dented but in tact. By the time anyone had noted what had happened below the crown was gone, stolen, worth a fortune; a lucky commoner passing by would be eating well that night, likely breaking it down and selling it on for its worth.

A minute or so passed where witnesses weren't sure what had happened, and a silence hung in the air. Sansa took those seconds to look down at the body, and for the first time in weeks something akin to a smile showed on her expression. It was a small smile, barely there, but it was a smile all the same. She looked down at his body, her blue eyes not moving, not blinking as she took it in. She hadn't considered the consequences, what would happen next and frankly she didn't care, he was dead, her revenge had been achieved.

What else mattered compared to that?

And so she continued to look, look at his body on the floor. It wasn't even that deep a drop, but he had been pushed, unable to curl up in defence or attempt to land well. No, he had fallen with no preparation. His head had smacked against the stones below; the cause of his demise. His body was lying flat, his face hidden, pushed into the ground. His hands were by his face, one last attempt to save himself it seemed. He didn't move, it was clear he wasn't breathing. King Joffrey was gone from this world, and as Sansa processed that, took it in... well, her smile only grew.

But then the silence broke and shouts, screams, shrieks of horror filled the area. The smallfolk were running away, screaming in fear, smart to want to be nowhere near the crime scene for fear of being blamed. The Kingsguard had turned to her in horror, all fixed to the spot as they looked upon her, their eyes wide, not quite believing what they were seeing; their King dead on the floor, his body crumpled in, broken, like a doll, and the Stark girl, the hostage… standing on the platform, smiling down at the body, looking so peaceful, not remotely scared.

And yet she was, of course she was. Did she regret it? No. Was she scared for the consequences? Of course, she'd be a fool not to be. This action surely meant her death, she'd be hung, or beheaded, and her head mounted next to her Father's. She hadn't thought of that when she had acted, and she knew if she could go back, she would do it again.

And so, she was smiling as the Kingsguard rushed forward to her, looking cautious on the platform. It creaked as three of them stepped onto it, and so one stepped back, leaving only Ser Meryn and Ser Boros in place. She too stepped back, but she wasn't trying to run; where could she possibly run too? No, she was trapped, like a bird back in her cage, trapped, but she had no intention of them taking her.

She may be trapped from running, but she wasn't trapped from flying like the little bird she was.

"Tell Cersei, tell her that the North remembers" Her voice was delicate, and yet she knew they heard her. And so, with one more smile at the sun, she stepped off the platform, to join her Father. It was better that than be taken alive, tortured and killed eventually. It felt better, it felt right, and as she shut her eyes, and felt the wind whistle around her hair, she felt peace.

So, yeah...

I just started writing this and that is how it turned out. I loved the idea of Sansa being the one to end Joffrey, poetic justice if you will.

Now I did initially write this as a one shot, and yet over the hours I've been considering carrying it on, I have something close to an idea of how to carry it on, even a pairing in mind! Ahhh... what do we think? Please let me know if there is interest in carrying this on and I'll get cracking on chapter 2.

Regardless if you're a fan of GOT fics check out my page! Also if you're a reader of 'The Ink is Dry' the next chapter should be up in the next few days! Journey will follow shortly after!
As always please review/follow/fav - and thank you!

See ya.