Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web.

Please bear with me, everyone. I will try my best to make it up before the end of the month. Thank you.

In the depths of Maegor's Holdfast, in a tower chamber, Sansa had plunged herself into darkness.

She drew the bed curtains and fell into a dull sleep, waking to cry, then crying herself back to sleep. When she could not sleep, she would curl up in bed, grieving and trembling. Servants came and went, bringing her three meals a day, but she could not bear the sight of food. So dish after untouched dish piled up on the table by the window, until they soured and stank, and the servants took them away.

Sometimes her sleep was heavy as lead, dreamless all night long, and she would wake exhausted, even more tired than when she closed her eyes. But that was the good kind, because if she dreamed, it was always of her father. Whether sleeping or waking, all she could see was him being forced to his knees by gold cloaks, Ser Ilyn Payn striding toward him, drawing Ice from its scabbard on his back, and then… then… She had wanted to turn her head away, she had wanted to turn her head away so badly, but her legs had turned to water, and she was kneeling. And somehow, she could not look away. People were shouting all around her, and hadn't her Prince Charming smiled at her only a moment ago? He had smiled, she thought everything was all right, but only for an instant, and then he had said the words. Her father's feet… She remembered only his feet, jerking violently… when Ser Ilyn… when his sword…

I might as well die, she told herself, and found the thought not frightening at all. If she threw herself from the window, she could end it all, and years from now, the singers would make songs of her sorrow. She would lie broken on the stones beneath the tower, pure and innocent, and shame all those who had betrayed her. Several times Sansa crossed the room and threw open the shutters… but the courage would always leave her then, and she would run back to bed, weeping.

When her serving women brought food, they would try to talk to her, but she ignored them. Once, Grand Maester Pycelle came with a case of jars and bottles, and asked if she was ill. He felt her brow, commanded her to disrobe, and had the serving women hold her arms and legs while he felt all of her. When he left, he gave her a jar of honeyed wine flavored with herbs, and told her to sip a little each night. She did as she was bid, and fell back to sleep.

She dreamed of footsteps on the tower stairs, an ominous sound of leather on stone. Someone was coming slowly, step by step, to her bedchamber. All she could do was huddle behind the door, shivering, listening to him come closer. She knew it would be Ser Ilyn Payne, with Ice in his hand, come to take her head. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no way to bar the door. Finally the steps stopped, and she knew he was standing just outside the door, silent, with his long pockmarked face and his dead eyes. And then she realized that she was naked, and she flung herself to the floor, trying to cover herself with her hands. Slowly the door creaked open, and the tip of the greatsword thrust through…

When she woke, she was mumbling, "Please, please, I'm good, I'll be good, please don't kill me." But there was no one to hear.

When they did come for her, Sansa did not hear the footsteps. It was not Ser Ilyn who opened the door, but Joffrey, her Prince Charming of old. She was in bed, curled up in a ball, unable to tell noon from midnight with the curtains drawn. First she heard the door crash open, then the curtains were ripped aside, and she threw up a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden light, and saw them standing over her.

"You're going to court with me this afternoon," Joffrey said. "Bathe and dress, and try to look a little like my betrothed."

Sandor Clegane stood beside him, clad in a plain brown tunic and a green cloak, his burned face ghastly in the morning light. Behind them stood two Kingsguard, their long white cloaks of heavy silk.

Sansa pulled the blanket to her chin, covering herself. "No," she pleaded, "please… please let me be."

"If you don't get up and dress, I'll have my dog dress you," Joffrey said.

"Please, Your Grace…"

"I am the king. Dog, drag her out of there."

Sandor Clegane seized her wrist and hauled her out of the featherbed, despite her feeble struggles. The blanket fell to the floor, leaving her clad only in a thin sleeping gown. "Child, do as he says," Clegane said. "Get dressed." He gave her a push toward the wardrobe, almost gently.

Sansa pushed them away. "I did what the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I said what she told me to say. You promised you'd be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won't betray you, I'll be good and obey, I swear it. There's no traitor's blood in me, truly. I only want to go home." Remembering that she should be formal, she lowered her head. "If it please Your Grace," she said weakly.

"It does not please me," Joffrey said. "My mother says I still must marry you, so you must stay here and be obedient."

"I don't want to marry you," Sansa sobbed. "You killed my father!"

"He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only to be merciful. And I was. If he hadn't been your father, I'd have had him torn apart and flayed, but I let him die quickly."

Sansa stared at him, seeing him clearly for the first time. He was wearing a padded doublet of crimson silk, embroidered with lions, a golden cloak, the high collar framing his face. How could I ever have thought him handsome? she wondered. His lips were red and wet, like worms wriggling in the dirt after a rain, his eyes fatuous and cruel. "I hate you," she whispered.

King Joffrey's face darkened. "My mother says a king must not strike his lady wife. Ser Meryn."

Before she could react, the knight had pulled her hand away from her face and struck her a heavy blow across the ear. Sansa did not remember falling, but when she came back to herself she was kneeling on the rushes, dizzy and reeling. Ser Meryn Trant stood over her, blood on the knuckles of his white silk gloves.

"Will you obey, or shall I have him teach you again?"

Sansa's ear was numb. She reached up and touched it, and her fingertips came away wet with blood. "I… I am yours to command, Your Grace."

"'Your Majesty,'" Joffrey corrected her. "I shall see you at court anon." He turned and left.

Ser Meryn and Ser Arys followed him out, but Sandor Clegane gave her a rough pull, hauling her to her feet. "Little bird, for your own sake, do as he wants."

"What… what does he want? Please, tell me."

"He wants you smiling, with perfume in your hair, his beautiful bride," the Hound rasped. "He wants to hear you say those pretty words the septas taught you. He wants you to love him… and fear him."

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