Westeros - The dark side of a kingdom

[LaLia]

1.07. - Beg for mercy

Dawn broke over King's Landing, but the city was already in turmoil. Sansa Stark was jolted awake. Two guards stood in her chamber, their faces hard as stone. "Lady Sansa, you are under arrest," the older one said harshly, while the younger regarded her with cold eyes. Sansa blinked in confusion, her heart pounding. "What... what have I done?" Her voice trembled, but the guards made no reply. She was ordered not to leave her room, and the heavy door slammed shut with a dull thud. There was no sign of Septa Mordane, Jeyne Poole, or any familiar face. Sansa sat on her bed, her hands clasped together, trying to fight down the panic. What had happened? Why this sudden cold, this isolation? Her mind raced but found no answers. The hours crawled by each minute a viscous drop of uncertainty as she paced the cold stone floor.

It wasn't until around midday that the door opened again. King Joffrey, in a magnificent red tunic, entered, a smile on his lips that made Sansa shiver. "Lady Sansa, how lovely to see you," he said in a sweet voice, but his eyes glittered with scorn. "Your father, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, has been arrested for treason." Sansa caught her breath. Treason? Her father, the man who had always raised her with pride and honor, a traitor? She didn't understand, couldn't believe it. "This... this must be a mistake," she stammered, but Joffrey's smile broadened. "Oh, no mistake, my dear. He was conspiring against the crown. But don't worry, I am generous. You may visit him—if you wish." His words sounded like an offer, but Sansa sensed the threat behind them. She had no idea of the Lannister’s' dark secrets, but a chill ran down her spine as she met Joffrey's gaze. She nodded silently, her throat too tight to speak.

With a pounding heart, Sansa was soon led through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, down into the depths of the palace, where the prison lay. The smell of damp stone greeted her, and the torchlight cast long shadows on the walls. A guard, his face marked by scars, stood before a heavy iron door. He regarded her with a gaze that made her blood run cold. "Ah, the traitor's daughter," he said, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Before I let you see him, I must ensure you have no weapons or forbidden items." Sansa swallowed hard, her hands shaking. "King Joffrey has allowed me to visit him," she said, her voice a wavering mixture of anger and despair. The guard stepped closer, his grin widening. "Certainly, my lady, but I have my instructions. Everyone will be thoroughly searched. So, remove your dress—or leave."

Sansa stared at him in disbelief. Her heart pounded and her cheeks burned with shame. Humiliation was nothing new in King's Landing—Joffrey's taunts, Cersei's cold stares—but this was a new level of humiliation. She took a deep breath, her breath shaky, and then slowly let her dress slide to the floor. The cold stone beneath her feet bit into her skin as she tried to cover her nakedness with her hands. But then she let her hands hang at her sides when the guard ordered her to.

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The guard let his gaze wander over her body, over her firm breasts, her flat stomach, her most intimate area. Sansa kept her head bowing, her cheeks burning, as he commanded her to turn slowly. She obeyed her movements mechanically, feeling his gaze like pinpricks. "Now bend over," he said as she turned her back to him. Sansa trembled all over as she placed her hands on the cold wall and bent over, sticking out her bottom. She felt him squat down, felt his gaze boring into her. Suddenly, his rough, cold hands closed on her inner thighs, forcing her legs further apart. Her breath caught as his fingers moved closer. "Truly a pretty cunt," he said, laughing. "The king wasn't lying." Before Sansa could react, his fingers entered her, a brief, brutal penetration that made her squeal. Her body twitched, tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lower lip to keep from screaming. It lasted only seconds, but the humiliation was even more intense. Then he withdrew his fingers, slapping his palm against her bottom so hard that the sound echoed through the cell. "Good, you may dress," he said, as if nothing had happened. With trembling hands, Sansa reached for her gown, hastily pulling it on, and fought back the tears that filled her eyes. It took her a moment to composed herself before the door opened and she was finally admitted to her father.

The cell was small, damp, and dark, with only a flickering torch providing dim light. Eddard Stark sat on a narrow cot, his hands chained, his face gaunt and tired, but his eyes glittering with the same unwavering determination Sansa had always admired. "Father," she whispered, her voice breaking as she rushed toward him. He raised his hands as far as the chains allowed and placed them gently on her shoulders. "Sansa, my child," he said softly, his voice full of warmth but also pain. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."

"Father, what happened?" Sansa asked, her voice trembling with fear and confusion. "Joffrey says you're a traitor. That can't be true!" Eddard sighed heavily, his gaze wandering into the distance, as if seeing something far beyond the cell walls. "Listen to me, Sansa," he began, his voice calm but firm. "Joffrey is not a legitimate king. He is not a son of Robert Baratheon, but a bastard, born of the sin between Cersei and her brother, Jaime." Sansa gasped, her eyes widening. "This... this can't be," she whispered, but Eddard continued. "I've found evidence, ancient writings, witnesses... I wanted to put Renly Baratheon on the throne. Robert had no legitimate heirs, and Renly, his younger brother, would have been a just king. Stannis is too harsh, too unyielding, but Renly... he would have united the realm. But I was betrayed. By those I trusted. Cersei learned of my plans, and now I'm here, accused of treason."

Sansa shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Treason... Father, that means death!" Her voice was a desperate plea. "Please, Father, you must beg Cersei and Joffrey for mercy! Swear your loyalty to the crown and to Joffrey, tell them you were wrong!" But Eddard straightened, his eyes flashing with pride. "Never, Sansa," he said firmly. "I will not bend the knee to murderers and liars. The Lannister’s are poison to this realm. I swore to protect the truth, and I will hold on to it, even if it costs me my life." Sansa sobbed, her hands grasping him, but the chains clanging coldly between them. "Father, please..." she whispered, but she saw in his eyes that he would not give in.

As she left the cell, the guard's grinning gaze followed her. His eyes seemed to mock her, and the memory of his touch was still present in Sansa's mind. Sansa held her head high, forcing herself not to cry, but inside her a storm of fear, shame, and despair raged. Back in her room, she threw herself onto her bed, the covers pulled tightly around her, but sleep eluded her. Her mind revolved around her father's words, the truth about Joffrey, the humiliation she had suffered. She could not allow her father to die. Not for his pride, not for his honor. Resolutely, she wiped her tears away. She would go to Joffrey. She would beg him, beg for mercy, no matter what it cost her.

The next morning dawned gray and heavy over King's Landing, the air filled with a fine mist that veiled the towers of the Red Keep. Sansa Stark stood before the heavy wooden door to Joffrey's chambers, her hands trembling as she gripped the cold brass handle. Her heart pounded wildly, and inwardly she prayed to the old and new gods that Joffrey would show mercy. "Please, spare my father," she whispered silently, her lips barely moving as she opened the door. The room beyond was filled with a heavy aroma of wine and perfume, tinged with the sweet scent of candle wax. Golden tapestries with lion motifs adorned the walls, and the large four-poster bed dominated the room, its red curtains half-drawn.

Sansa entered, and her eyes immediately fell on two naked women positioned before the bed, their bodies glistening with sweat. The older one, with ample breasts and long, braided pigtails, stood near the edge of the bed, while the younger one, more delicate and with short, dark curls, knelt before her, her tongue gliding in slow, rhythmic motions over the older woman's lap. A soft moan filled the room, mingled with the sharp crack of a riding crop, which the older one repeatedly struck on the younger woman's back or bottom whenever Joffrey signaled. Sansa felt her face heat up, her eyes flickering nervously between the bed and the floor. Joffrey sat on a cushioned chair off to one side, his green eyes sparkling with pleasure as he noticed Sansa. "The traitor's daughter," he said with a sneer, his voice dripping with scorn. Sansa lowered her gaze, her hands clenching the folds of her silk gown. "My King, Your Grace," she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I beg you for my father's life. Spare him, let him return to the North, and I... I am yours forever."

Joffrey laughed, a cold, sharp sound that made Sansa flinch. "You stupid little bitch, so you come here to beg me? Then why are you still standing?" His words struck her like a whip. Without thinking, Sansa sank to her knees, the cold stone floor making her shiver. "Forgive me," she murmured, her voice trembling with fear and shame. "I beg you again, spare my father, and I will do as you wish." Joffrey laughed again, his eyes glittering wickedly. "You do that anyway," he said, turning back to the women. The crack of the crop, the soft cries of the younger women, and the pleasurable moans of the older women merged into a disturbing sound that filled the room. Sansa noticed out of the corner of her eye that Joffrey had unzipped his trousers, his hard cock in his hand. Her gaze darted between the women and the king, her stomach clenching. "Do you see these two good sluts, Sansa?" Joffrey asked, his voice both sweet and threatening. He stroked her head with his free hand, his fingers digging into her reddish hair. Sansa nodded silently, her throat tight. "I could order them to suck my cock now," he continued, "or you could prove to me that you're just as good and obedient."

Sansa immediately understood what he demanded. Her heart pounded as Joffrey spread his legs wider, offering her space between them. His hard cock was inches from her face, his hand heavy on her head. With trembling fingers, Sansa reached for it, her right hand hesitantly wrapping around it, and she began to jerk him slowly, her movements uncertain and mechanical. Joffrey's gaze grew sterner. "This isn't enough, Sansa," he growled, his voice sharp as a dagger. "You know what I want." Sansa closed her eyes, tears burning behind her lids, as she leaned forward. Her lips touched the tip of his cock, warm and salty, and she forced herself to take it into her mouth. She moved her head slowly, her tongue gliding hesitantly over it, trying to block out the sounds of the women in the background—the slap of the crop, the moans, Joffrey's laughter. He leaned back, a satisfied groan escaping his throat as he watched the older prostitute strike the younger with the crop, their movements becoming faster and more urgent. Sansa felt his grip on her hair, guiding her, controlling her movements. She fought the gag reflex, her tears now flowing freely as she took him deeper into her mouth, her lips tightly wrapped around him. Joffrey's moans grew louder, his hips jerking slightly as he held her head tighter. "Good girl," he murmured, but his voice was full of scorn.

Suddenly he pulled her head back, his eyes glittering with lust. "Enough," he said. "Take off your clothes, sit on me. Ride me." Sansa froze, her breath coming in gasps. She knew resistance was useless. Her legs trembling, she rose, removed her dress, and sat backward on his lap, her hands on his knees. She felt his hard cock press against her entrance, and with a soft gasp, she let him slide inside her. The pain was palpable as he pressed deep inside her, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming. Joffrey's hands slid over her body, finding her breasts and kneading them roughly before he pulled her head back harshly repeatedly, his fingers wrapping around her throat, choking her. "Traitor," he hissed, his breath hot in her ear. "Whore. Do you think you can fool me with your pleading?" Sansa wept silently, her tears dripping onto her chest as she forced herself to move her hips, to ride him as he demanded. Each thrust drove him deeper into her, and she gasped in pain and shame, her body trembling beneath his touch. In the background, she heard the older prostitute moan, her cries of pleasure growing louder as the younger one brought her to climax. Joffrey's hands grew rougher, his grip on her throat tightened, and with a final, animalistic groan, he came deep inside her, his body convulsing beneath her. Sansa felt the warmth within her, and a shudder of revulsion ran through her. He pushed her roughly from his lap, and Sansa fell to her knees, her legs shaking too much to stand. She thought he was going to force her to suck him again, but instead, she suddenly felt a warm, stinging spray on her face. She gasped as his urine hit her skin, spurted into her open mouth, and dripped down her chin.

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The stench was overpowering, and she spat in disgust, her hands shaking as she tried to wipe her face. The humiliation burned like fire, deeper than anything she had experienced before. Joffrey laughed, a cold, triumphant laugh. "Perhaps I'll consider sparing your father," he said finally, zipping up his trousers. "Perhaps I'll send him to the Wall. That would be generous, wouldn't it?"

Sansa forced herself to nod, her voice barely audible. "That would be so generous, my king," she whispered. "And when we are wed, the North will be yours as well." The words tasted like poison on her tongue. Once she had dreamed of becoming queen, of ruling at Joffrey's side, but that dream had become a nightmare, wrapping itself tighter around her with every second. What would he do to her when they were wed? Would he ever treat her better? Or was this her fate—an endless chain of humiliations? She didn't know, and the uncertainty ate away at her.

Back in her room, Sansa had a bath prepared. The water was hot, almost painful, as she sank into it, turning her skin red. She scrubbed her body until it was raw, trying to wash away the smell of Joffrey, the feel of his semen, the stench of his urine. But the shame remained, clinging to her like a shadow that wouldn't wash away. She stared into the steaming water, her thoughts a swirl of fear, anger, and despair. Father, I tried, she thought, as tears dripped into the bathwater. I will not give up. I will save you. But deep down, she wondered if there was any hope at all—or if she was trapped in King's Landing forever, a little wolf in a cage of lions.

[Interception]

Another very good chapter

[Lucius]

I can see Joff being into golden showers. That Lannister fixation with yellow stuff ... :D

[LaLia]

1.08. - Used by the common people

In the days following her humiliating visit to Joffrey, Sansa Stark was obsessed with a single thought: Would the young king spare her father? The uncertainty gnawed at her like a hungry wolf, keeping her awake at night as she stared into the darkness of her chamber. The rich tapestries with their golden lion designs, once so impressive, now seemed to mock her, their colors fading in the flickering candlelight. Every night, she knelt before her small shrine, her hands trembling as she prayed to the gods—for mercy, for hope, for a miracle. But the gods remained silent, and Sansa felt as if the walls of the Red Keep were slowly crushing her. Her dreams of a bright future as queen had long since crumbled to ashes, replaced by a cold, merciless reality. Please, Father, you must live, she thought, nervously twirling the pearls of her gown between her fingers. She clung to the memory of Joffrey's words—that he might consider sending her father to the Wall. It was a faint spark of hope, but it was all she had.

A few days later, Sansa received permission to visit her father again. The journey down into the damp, musty dungeons was familiar to her by now, but the shame of her humiliation at the hands of the guard still burned within her. This time she was allowed through without being searched, perhaps because the guard noticed her broken gaze or because Joffrey's order was different this time. In the dark cell, she found Eddard Stark, still in chains, his face paler, his eyes weary, but his posture unbowed. "Sansa," he whispered as she approached him, and the warmth in his voice brought tears to her eyes. "Father," she began, her voice trembling, "you must live. You must... withdraw the accusations. Swear your loyalty to the crown. Please." Eddard looked at her for a long moment, his gray eyes filled with pain, but also pride. "Sansa, I have my honor," he said quietly. "The truth is all I have." But Sansa didn't let go. She knelt before him, her hands grasping his cold from the iron shackles. "Father, I beg you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "For me. For Arya. For the North. If you die, we are lost." Something in her gaze, in her despair, seemed to reach him. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. "For you, Sansa," he said finally. "I will do it."

The night before the public trial, Sansa could not sleep. She sat on her bed, her knees drawn to her chest, staring out the narrow window at the twinkling lights of King's Landing. Her heart was full of hope, fragile as glass, yet strong enough to carry her through the darkness. He will live; she told herself again and again. Joffrey will show mercy. Father will go to the Wall, and everything will be all right. As dawn broke, she put on a simple gray gown, her hands trembling as she braided her hair. She did not want to attract attention, only wanted this day to be over. The trial took place in the great square before the Sept of Baelor, where a crowd had gathered, their voices, a roaring sea of mockery and curiosity. Sansa stood in the front row, her hands clasped, her breathing shallow, as Eddard was brought forward. He seemed weak, but his voice was clear as he retracted his accusations and swore his loyalty to the crown. Sansa held her breath, her eyes searching Joffrey's face, perched high atop a pedestal, framed by golden lion banners.

But then Joffrey spoke, and his words shattered her hope like a hammer through glass. "Lord Eddard Stark has confessed to treason," he cried, his voice sharp and triumphant. "But treason deserves no mercy. I command his execution!" A cry rippled through the crowd, and Sansa felt the world around her begin to shake. "No!" she cried, her voice lost in the tumult. She pushed forward, trying to run to him, but strong hands held her back. Even Cersei, standing beside Joffrey, looked momentarily horrified, her lips parting as if to object. "Joffrey, this is not wise," Sansa heard her say, her voice muffled, but the young king waved her hand dismissively. "I am the king!" he roared. "And I say he dies!" Sansa could only watch as Ser Ilyn Payne, the royal executioner, stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. Eddard's eyes met hers just before the sword came down, and in his, she saw pride, love, and a hint of regret. Then it was over. His head fell, blood splattered on the stone, and the crowd roared. Sansa sank to her knees, a silent scream in her throat as the world around her sank into darkness.

Now Sansa was alone. Far from Winterfell, far from everything she had ever known, she was a hostage of the Lannisters. Her father was dead, and there was no sign of her sister, Arya. The days and weeks that followed were a nightmare of grief and masquerade. Sansa forced herself to play the part, smiling when Joffrey demanded, bowing to Cersei, speaking the right words. But in her heart burned a fire of hatred, hot and relentless. She dreamed of tearing apart the lions that had taken everything from her, but she knew she had to be careful. Any false move could mean her downfall. Joffrey continued to humiliate her, his words like lashes. "Traitor," he hissed at every opportunity, "your blood is poison." Once, at a feast, he forced her to sing a song of the greatness of the Lannisters in front of the entire court, while he laughed at her. Sansa sang, her voice clear, but her eyes empty. She knew how fragile this peace was, how quickly Joffrey's moods could turn into something worse.

Soon, the first news arrived from the North. Her brother Robb had raised the banners, the Stark vassals swore to avenge their father's death. The first attacks on Lannister troops were reported, and rumors of the Starks' advance south spread like wildfire. Sansa heard the servants whispering, saw the nervous glances of the courtiers. One morning, she was summoned to the throne room, where Joffrey sat on the Iron Throne, his face contorted with rage. "Your brother, that mangy wolf, dares to march against me!" Joffrey roared, his voice echoing through the room as Sansa entered. Her heart pounded, but she kept her head down, her hands trembling in the folds of her gown. She knew this was only the beginning. The war had begun, and she was in the middle of it, a prisoner in a game she couldn't control.

The air in the throne room was heavy, as the torches on the walls cast flickering shadows on the jagged blades of the Iron Throne. Sansa Stark approached the throne with slow, hesitant steps, her feet feeling as if they were made of lead. Her heart pounded in her chest; each beat an echo of her fear. Cersei sat beside Joffrey, her posture immaculate, her face a mask of cool composure, but her eyes followed Sansa with a mixture of pity and calculation. Joffrey perched high on the throne, his golden curls gleaming in the light, grinned evilly, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrests. To the right and left of the room stood members of the palace guard in their shining armor, several generals with grim expressions, nobles whose names Sansa did not know, and a few servants who hovered nervously at the edges of the room. All eyes were on her, their gazes boring into her like daggers, and Sansa felt her cheeks heat with shame and fear.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, she sank to her knees. Her hands trembled as she placed them in her lap, and she kept gazing down, unable to bear Joffrey's sneer. "Perhaps I should send your brother your head?" Joffrey hissed, his voice venomous and sharp as a scorpion's stinger. Sansa flinched, her throat tightening. Before she could reply, Joffrey signaled Ser Ilyn Payne, and the silent executioner stepped closer, his footsteps echoing on the ground. Sansa cried out as he roughly grabbed her hair, his bony fingers digging into her scalp. She saw his other hand move to the hilt of her sword, and for a moment, she thought her last moment had come. "Wait," Cersei said suddenly, her voice gentle but firm. "We need her alive, Joffrey." Joffrey's lips curled into a reluctant pout. "Very well," he said finally, his voice dripping with displeasure. "But she deserves punishment. Ser Ilyn..."

Sansa looked at him desperately, her eyes begging for mercy. "Please, my king..." she began, but her voice broke as Ser Ilyn suddenly grabbed her dress. With a wrench, the fabric ripped, the sharp sound of the ripping velvet filling the room like thunder. Sansa swallowed hard, her hands clutching the remains of her dress as she felt the cold air brush against her bare back and exposed bottom. Everyone in the hall could see her, and shame burned hotter than any flame. Ser Ilyn pushed her forward with a brutal movement until her face touched the cold marble floor. She heard the soft hiss of the whip cutting through the air and braced herself for the pain. The first blow landed on her bottom, a burning streak that made her cry out. The second followed on her back, a searing pain that ate into her skin, and the third again adorned her buttocks with welts that burned like fire. Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto the floor, and the humiliation was as overwhelming as the physical pain. She felt dehumanized, a plaything for Joffrey's cruelty, while the courtiers' gazes pierced her. Why? she thought desperately. What do I deserve this for? I haven't done anything. But she knew that the truth didn't matter to Joffrey—she was the daughter of a traitor, a symbol of his triumph.

"Enough!" A voice suddenly cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. Sansa recognized it immediately—Tyrion Lannister, recently returned as Hand of the King. "That's enough, Joffrey. Do you wish to make the Young Wolf even angrier? Sansa is too valuable as a hostage, and you shouldn't hurt her like this, my king." To Sansa's surprise, Joffrey raised a hand, signaling Ser Ilyn to stop. The executioner stepped back, and Sansa reared up, trembling, her hands clutching the scraps of her dress to cover her nakedness. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her welts pounding with every heartbeat, but she forced herself not to collapse. "Let this be a lesson to you," Joffrey said, his voice cold and triumphant. "You will write to your brother to lay down his weapons. If he bows to me, I will spare you and the North."

Two ladies rushed forward, their faces filled with pity as they supported Sansa and led her from the hall. She felt the stares of the courtiers, some mocking, others pitying, and every step was an agony as the welts on her back and bottom burned with every movement. In her chamber, she sank into a chair, her body trembling, her thoughts a whirl of pain, shame, and hatred. Robb, she thought, looking at the torn pieces of her dress. You must be strong. For Father. For me. But the thought of writing to her brother, asking him to submit to Joffrey, felt like a betrayal. Yet she had no choice but to do so.

A few days later: The streets of King's Landing boiled with anger as the royal retinue fought its way through the narrow streets back to the Red Keep. Myrcella, Joffrey's sister, had just been sent off on a ship to Dorne, and the crowd gathered at the docks was furious. The stench of unwashed bodies, rotten fish, and burning pitch filled the air, while shouts and curses swept through the city like a storm. Sansa Stark walked close behind Cersei, her hands clenched in the folds of her gown, her heart pounding. The crowd pressed ever closer, their faces contorted with hatred, their voices a chorus of rage: "Bread! We want bread!" and "Death to the king!" Sansa felt the air grow thicker, the heat of bodies and the hostility threatening to suffocate her. She glanced at Joffrey, who strode ahead with a haughty expression, his golden crown gleaming in the pale light of the setting sun. He doesn't see, she thought, her throat tight with fear. He doesn't see how much they hate him. Her thoughts raced back to her father, to his blood on the stone of the Sept of Baelor, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. She knew she wasn't safe here—not as a prisoner of the Lannisters, not as the daughter of a traitor.

Suddenly, the crowd exploded. A rotten apple flew through the air, narrowly missing Joffrey, and the next moment, chaos erupted. Stones and debris rained down on the retinue, the palace guards drew their swords, and screams rented the air. Sansa stumbled as someone bumped into her, her hand slipping from the arm of the lady-in-waiting beside her. "Cersei!" she cried, but her voice was lost in the tumult. The crowd urged her back, away from the royal group, and before she knew it, she was forced into a narrow, dark alley. The walls of weathered stones loomed high above her, the ground slippery with mud and debris. Her breath came in gasps as she looked around, her eyes wide with panic. The sounds of the riot—the clash of swords, the roar of the crowd—faded, replaced by the dull echo of her own footsteps and the harsh laughter of men who had followed her.


Sansa turned, her heart hammering against her ribs. Four men, their faces dirty, their eyes gleaming with greed, closed off the alley. One, a beefy man with a scar across his forehead, grinned broadly, his teeth yellow and crooked. "Well, look at the little lady," he growled, as the others laughed. Sansa backed away until her back hit the cold stone wall. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling, "let me go." But the men came closer, their footsteps heavy and threatening. The second, a gaunt man with greasy hair, suddenly grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin. "Oh, we'll let you go, Lady," he said, his breath stank of sour wine, "but only when we're done with you." Sansa cried out, wrenching herself free, but the third man, small but strong, grabbed her from behind, his arms tightening around her waist like a vice.



With a brutal tug, they ripped her dress apart, the precious silk shattering into shreds that fell to the ground. Sansa gasped, her arms instinctively wrapping around her body to cover her nakedness, but the men just laughed. "Look at the little she-wolf," sneered the fourth man, a blond guy with an icy gaze, as he approached. "Not so haughty without your fancy dress, eh?" She felt her knees buckle as the gaunt man grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her to the cold, dirty ground. Sansa sobbed, her tears mingling with the dirt beneath her. "Please, no," she begged, her voice breaking, but the men didn't hear. The strong man knelt over her, his hands tearing at her undergarments until they, too, were in tatters. Her skin was now completely exposed, the cold air and the men's lustful gazes burning like fire. Sansa closed her eyes, her thoughts a whirl of fear and despair. No one was there to save her.

The scarred man leaned over her, his hands grasping her breasts, while the gaunt man forced her legs apart. Sansa screamed, her body twitching, but her strength was nothing against the men's brute force. The alley seemed to close in on her, the walls pressing in as if to swallow her whole. Her thoughts raced back to Joffrey, to Ser Ilyn, to the humiliations in the throne room—was this her fate? An endless chain of violence and shame? She felt the strong man unzip his trousers, heard the others' harsh laughter, and her heart shattered into a thousand pieces. The men were upon her, their hands everywhere, their intentions clear.

The alley was a dark maw, the high stone walls enclosing Sansa Stark like the walls of a tomb. The ground beneath her was cold and slippery, the mud mingling with her tears as she lay on her back, her hands clawing at the dirt, desperate for purchase. She tried to squeeze her legs together, her muscles trembling with the effort, but the powerful man pressing himself between her thighs was too strong. His weight bore down on her; his breath stank of sour ale and greed. Sansa screamed, a raw, desperate sound that echoed through the alley as she lashed out with her fists. Her nails scraped down his arms, but he only laughed, a deep sound that made her blood run cold. "Hold still, little lady," he growled, his hands wrenching her legs further apart, and before Sansa could cry out again, he entered her. The pain was like lightning coursing through her body, and she gasped, her tears streaming hotly down her cheeks as his heavy, panting body pressed down on her and his cock moved deeper and deeper inside her.

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He took her with quick, deep thrusts. Sansa whimpered, her fists clenching, but her strength dwindling with each moment. The other men, the scarred one, the blond one, and the gaunt one, had positioned themselves on either side of her face, their filthy hands grasping her breasts as they grinned lasciviously. Sansa saw the three erect cocks approaching her and pressed her lips together tightly, her eyes wide with horror. She didn't want to scream, didn't want to open her lips, but another deep thrust from the man between her legs tore her mouth open, a scream escaping her throat—and the next moment her mouth was filled. The scarred one grabbed her hair, forced her head back, and shoved his cock into her mouth, his stench overwhelming her. Sansa choked, her tears streaming faster as the men's cocks took turns forcing themselves into her mouth, her lips aching, her jaw trembling with the effort. Her breasts heaved under the hard thrusts of the man pinning her to the ground, her skin chafing raw against the dirty surface as the other two men took turns, their faces contorted with desire.

The sounds of the riot faded from Sansa's ears, as if the world were muffled by a thick veil of cotton wool. All that remained were the panting breaths of the four men surrounding her, their bodies pressing her to the muddy ground, their hands holding her, their greed devouring her. Sansa felt as if she were falling into an abyss, her mind dissolving in a fog of pain and shame. The men laughed, their voices ragged and triumphant, as they abused her body. The mud beneath her was cold and sticky, her hands clutching the dirt as the four men surrounded her, their eyes burning with greed like those of a pack of wolves.

Suddenly, the men pulled away from her, just for a moment, and Sansa gasped, her lungs burning as she gasped for air. Her legs trembled as she tried to get to her feet, but before she could escape, two of the men grabbed her with brute force. The scarred man and the gaunt man dragged her toward the burly man who had lain on the ground, his grin a sneer of pain. Sansa struggled, her nails raking the scared man's arms, her screams ripping through the stifling air of the alley, but there was no escape. "Stop squirming, little lady," the burly man growled as the others shoved her down onto him. She cried out briefly, a raw, desperate sound, as her body was pressed against his, the pain like a dagger cutting through her. Her mind screamed, "No, not like this, please," but the words caught in her throat, choked with fear and shame, as the cock pressed into her again, she slid onto him.

When the second man positioned himself behind her, Sansa knew what they were planning. "No, please, not there..." she gasped, her voice a desperate plea that echoed in the alley. She felt her buttocks pulled apart, the man's rough hands like iron on her skin. Before she could protest again, the thin man grabbed her hair and forced her head down, his fingers digging brutally into her scalp as he forced his cock into her mouth again. Sansa gagged, her tears mingling with the mud on her face. The third intruder came, and her cry was muffled by the violence that surrounded her. Her body, young and filthy, was trapped between the men, a plaything of their cruelty. One thrust from below, another fucked her ass from behind, the thin man thrusting his cock into her mouth repeatedly, and the fourth man sat beside her, jerking his cock as he forced her head deeper and deeper. The sounds of the city were a dull roar, as if the world had withdrawn from her.

The humiliations she had suffered at Joffrey's hands—the whippings in the throne room, the shame in his chambers, the constant verbal barbs—paled before this raw, merciless violence. The men laughed, their voices a venomous chorus echoing through the alley. "You're no lady now, are you?" sneered the scarred man, his breath hot and putrid as he loomed over her. "Just an alley whore." Sansa's body went limp, her muscles trembling with exhaustion, and a small whimper escaped her lips. But deep within her, beneath the pain and shame, a spark burned—a remnant of her pride, her Stark blood. I am Winterfell, she thought, her thoughts were a desperate mantra as she fought against the darkness. I will not break. Her eyes, veiled with tears, scanned the alley, searching for a way out, for a spark of hope, but none seemed to exist.

The four men surrounding her were like predators, their eyes gleaming with greed, their panting breaths filling the alley with a rhythmic, bestial sound. Sansa was trapped between them, her body trembling with exhaustion and pain, her arms held roughly and unceremoniously as she struggled against the men's brute force. Her screams had long since faded to a low whimper, her throat raw. The men, absorbed in their own greed, huffed and laughed, their voices drowning out the distant sounds of the riot. They seemed oblivious to the world around them, lost in its cruelty.

Sansa was slowly breaking, her mind a web of fear and despair. "I am a Stark," a weak voice whispered inside her, but the words were smothered by the force of humiliation. The men continued to laugh, their movements becoming harsher, their voices a venomous chorus. "No more lady, eh?" they sneered again and again. Sansa closed her eyes, trying to retreat into the memories of Winterfell—the snow-covered woods, the laughter of her siblings—but reality was relentless, a nightmare of mud and violence.

Suddenly, she felt one of the men release her, a brief pause that made her heart race. She opened her eyes, just in time to see the gaunt man standing before her slump. Something warm splashed onto her face, and for a moment she thought it was something else, but as her eyes focused, she saw the blood gushing from his throat, red and glistening in the dim light. Sansa gasped, both shocked and surprised, as the man fell to the ground with a gurgling sound. The second man, who had been behind her, jumped to his feet, his movements panicked as he frantically reached for his belt to draw a weapon. But before he could react, steel flashed in the alley, and he fell with a thud, his body jerking briefly before falling still.

The man beneath Sansa roughly pushed her away, leaped to his feet, and reached for a rusty dagger. But he, too, stood no chance. A shadow moved with deadly precision, and within seconds, the last two men lay dead in the mud, their eyes rigid with shock. Sansa, shivering and gasping, crawled backward, her hands grasping at the scraps of her torn dress to cover her nakedness. Her gaze fell on the figure now towering over her, the sword in his hand dripping with blood. It was Sandor Clegane, the Hound. His scarred face was like a mask, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and something Sansa couldn't interpret. The man she had once feared so much had come for her.

"Stand up, little bird," he growled, his voice rough as gravel, but without the malice she knew from Joffrey. Sansa trembled, her legs feeling like water, but she forced herself to stand. Sandor pulled his heavy, worn cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her, the coarse wool scratching at her raw skin, but the warmth was a faint comfort. "Hold on to me," he said without looking at her, and Sansa clung to his arm, her fingers trembling, as he led her through the alley, back toward the Red Keep. The streets were still filled with chaos, but Sandor's massive frame and the bloody sword at his side kept the crowd at bay. Sansa stumbled beside him, her head down, her thoughts a mixture of fear, relief, and shame. He saved me, she thought, but the memory of the alley still burned in her soul. She knew King's Landing would never let her go, that the lions would always hunt her—but for this moment, by Sandor's side, she was safe.

[LaLia]

1.09. - Return of a friend

The candles had almost burned down. Their flickering light cast long, trembling shadows on the tapestries that had once been ablaze with vibrant hunting scenes. Now they appeared gray and weary, just as Sansa felt.

She sat on the narrow window seat, knees drawn up, chin resting on them, staring out into the night. King's Landing wasn't burning—not yet—but fear hung heavily in the air like smoke. Stannis was near. The streets whispered it. The guards cursed less loudly. Even the crows on the battles sounded more nervous.

A knock at the door made her jump.

In came not the usual handmaid, but one of the Gold Cloaks—young, beardless, with the hard look most of them had acquired by now. He held a small scrap of parchment in one hand and a folded piece of cloth in the other.

"From the king," he said tersely, without looking at her. "Read. Then put this on. Only this. And follow me."

He placed both items on the table beside her bed and backed out, as if afraid to stay near her any longer than necessary. The door clicked shut.

Sansa waited until his footsteps had faded before she stood up.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the parchment.

Put this on, and only this. Follow the guard. – J.

Six words. Six words enough to make her stomach clench.

She unfolded the fabric.

It wasn't really a dress. It was a silk cloak—or rather, what was left of a nightgown after someone had worked on it with scissors and a great deal of malice. Black, punctuated with fine knitting, in places so transparent that the skin beneath was clearly visible. The sleeves were wide, the neckline plunging, the hem ending just below her hips. It was made to reveal, not to conceal.

Sansa held it for a long moment, as if she could make it vanish with sheer willpower.

Then she laid it on the bed and began to undress her own dress. The heavy velvet she had worn all day fell heavily to the floor. She stepped out of her shoes, untied her slip, and stood naked in the cool air of the room. Goosebumps prickled her arms, her stomach, her breasts.

She slipped into the silken whisper.

The fabric glided over her skin. It clung instantly to every curve, almost sticking to her nipples, which hardened at the touch. Her skin shimmered between the intricate embroidery, the rosy areolas of her breasts, the shadow between her thighs. There was no escape—not from the mirror, not from herself.

She took a deep breath. Once. Twice. Three times.

The memories of the alley forced their way back, uninvited, brutal. The rough hands, the stench of sweat and cheap wine, the dirty fingers that had slipped under her skirt, the penises that had roughly raped her. Sandor Clegane's voice, harsh and angry, as he had pulled the men away from her. She had thought she would be safer afterward. A mistake.

And now this.

Joffrey again.

As the city trembled outside and Stannis's banner drew nearer, the young king demanded his toy.

Sansa straightened her shoulders. She wouldn't cry. Not tonight. Not in front of him.

She opened the door.

The guard was already waiting. His gaze swept over her once—not furtive, but openly, greedily—before he turned away and walked ahead.

The corridors were silent. Only her bare feet on the stone and the soft rustle of the silk fabric accompanied her.

Down the stairs. Deeper and deeper.

Past guards who didn't look at her. Past doors behind which she had sometimes heard screams.

And then the heavy iron door to the cellar.

The soldier opened it with a rusty creak.

Warm, stuffy air hit her—smelling of sweat, of metal, of something animal.

Sansa stepped over the threshold.

And there he sat.

Joffrey Baratheon—or Lannister, or whoever he wanted to be today—lay naked on a rough wooden ochre, legs spread wide, his grin narrow and sharp as a blade. His penis, already stiff and dark red, rose from his lap.

A dark-haired woman lay motionless on the floor in front of him.

Sansa gasped.

"Jeyne…"

The word came softly, almost soundlessly.

Joffrey laughed—that bright, malevolent laugh she heard in her nightmares.

"Are you glad to see me again?"

The door clicked shut behind Sansa. The sound echoed in the bare stairwell like a final judgment.

She stood there for a moment, her fingers still clenched in the silken fabric of the "dress."

Sansa couldn't speak. She could only nod—tiny, mechanical.

Jeyne stirred. First a twitch of her fingers, then a weak lift of her head. Her eyelids fluttered. When she finally looked at Sansa, there was neither surprise nor relief in her gaze—only a dull, numb resignation.

Sansa swallowed hard.

Jeyne Poole wore little more than a piece of cheap fabric—a tight top that pushed up her breasts, its lacing half undone, and a skirt that revealed a lot of skin. Bruises bloomed on her thighs like dirty flowers. Her hair hung limp and uncombed. Jeyne, who had once talked to her in Winterfell about embroidery and knightly ballads was gone. In her place knelt something broken, obedient, trained.

Joffrey grabbed Jeyne's hair, wrapped it once around his fist, and jerked her head up, closer to his lap.

“Your friend,” he said, almost tenderly, “has learned a great deal in the last few weeks. Littlefinger is… an excellent teacher.”

Sansa felt her stomach churning. She knew what that meant. Everyone in King’s Landing knew what happened to the girls who disappeared into Lord Petyr’s houses.

Joffrey gave a curt nod toward the man standing behind Sansa.

The next moment, rough hands were on her.



The guard's right hand gripped her hip, fingers digging into the soft skin above her hip bone. His left hand—larger, more calloused—closed around her throat. Not tight enough to cut off her air supply, but tight enough that Sansa felt the pressure of his fingers against her throat every time she swallowed.

He was young. Perhaps only three or four years older than her. Under different circumstances, she might even have found him handsome—brown hair, straight nose, broad shoulders. Now she felt only the heat of his body pressing against her back, and then—clearly, unmistakably—the hard length of his penis pushing against her buttocks through the rough wool of his trousers.

Sansa closed her eyes briefly.

The fabric of the silken nothingness slid apart. The two halves of the cloak fell to the side, exposing her breasts to the cool cellar air. Her nipples immediately tightened even more. Goosebumps prickled all over her body.

Joffrey watched her every move with shining eyes.

Jeyne was now on all fours. She hadn't even tried to resist. Her head fell obediently, her lips parting almost automatically. Sansa saw her friend's tongue briefly brush the head of his penis before Jeyne opened her mouth wide and slowly, almost reverently, took Joffrey inside.

No gagging. No hesitation. Only obedience.

The soldier behind Sansa breathed more heavily. His fingers on her throat tightened slightly—not enough to make her faint, but enough to remind her who was in charge. His other hand moved lower, finally pushing the gossamer fabric aside until Sansa's genitals were completely exposed. A finger slid tentatively between her labia.

Sansa bit her inner lip.

Joffrey leaned back, one hand still in Jeyne's hair, and looked directly into Sansa's eyes as her mouth continued to move along his shaft.

"Look," he said, almost gently. "You learn so quickly."

The soldier—Harald, as Joffrey called him—hadn't wasted many words.

With a sharp tug, he yanked the last vestige of silk from Sansa's shoulders. The sheer fabric fell to the floor. Sansa suddenly stood naked, the cool cellar air brushing against her heated skin, making her nipples painfully hard and sending a fresh wave of goosebumps down her spine.

Harald grasped her upper arm, not brutally, but firmly, and pushed her forward two steps until she was only a meter away from Jeyne and Joffrey. Her longtime friend knelt directly in front of her, head bowed, lips tightly closed around Joffrey's penis. Smacking, wet sounds filled the room—rhythmic, obedient, almost mechanical.

Sansa stared at Joffrey. Not pleading. Not begging. Just with cold, silent disgust.

He met her gaze, his eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure.

"Never forget," he hissed softly, almost tenderly, "you are the daughter of a traitor. The sister of a traitor. You are nothing."

His words landed like lashes of a whip. Sansa trembled—not just from the cold. Her knees felt weak, as if they were about to buckle.

Joffrey didn't look away from her as he tightened his grip on the back of Jeyne's head with his free hand, controlling her rhythm for a moment—deeper, slower.

Then he gave a curt nod to his henchman.

"Harald. Do whatever you want with that little redheaded slut."

Harald's grin widened. He took a half step back, eyeing Sansa up and down as if she were merchandise at a market stall. Then he pointed a single finger at the dirty stone floor in front of him.

"On your knees, redhead. And then you'll suck my hard cock."

Sansa cast one last glance at Jeyne. Her friend had closed her eyes, moved only her head, and had taken Joffrey deep into her throat without gagging once. Broken. Utterly broken.

And yet… it was precisely this sight that robbed Sansa of the strength to resist.

The fear of what Joffrey would do if she resisted was too great. The memory of his petty, sadistic games too vivid.

Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. The stone was cold and rough beneath her skin. She could feel every speck of dust.

Harald was already opening his trousers. The fabric fell apart, and his penis sprang out—long, strikingly long, at least 25 centimeters, but rather slender, almost elegant in its shape. The veins stood out darkly beneath the taut skin. The glans already glistened moistly with anticipation.

Sansa's eyes widened. Her hand trembled as she hesitantly reached for it. She couldn't even close her fingers completely around it.

For a moment, she just stared, as if she could prevent what was about to happen through sheer willpower.

Harald waited. He didn't push. He didn't hit. He simply let her feel how much power he had in that moment—and how little she did.

Sansa closed her eyes briefly. She took a deep breath. Then she leaned forward.

The tip of her tongue first touched the underside of the glans—carefully, tentatively. A salty drop of anticipation was already there. She licked it away, tracing a moist path from the tip down to the base, then back up again. Threads of saliva stretched between her lips and the shaft as she pulled back, only to move closer again immediately.

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She circled the glans with her tongue, slowly, almost tenderly—just as she had learned over the past few months, because resistance only led to worse. Her lips parted further. She took the tip into her mouth, sucked gently, and let her tongue glide flat over it.

Harald groaned softly—a deep, satisfied sound. His hand rested lightly on the back of her neck, not pressing, just guiding. He wanted her to do it herself. He wanted to enjoy it.

Sansa took more of him in. Inch by inch, the slender shaft slid deeper into her mouth. She had to open her jaw wide, feeling it presses against the roof of her mouth, then further back, almost to the back of her throat. She suppressed her gag reflex, concentrating on breathing evenly through her nose. Her cheeks sank as she sucked harder, her lips closing tightly around the shaft.

Back and forth. Slowly. Rhythmically. Her tongue continued to play along the underside, pressing against the sensitive vein, swirling around the glans as it almost withdrew completely, only to take him deep again.

Harald's breathing became heavier, but he remained calm. He was clearly enjoying it – the warmth of her mouth, the way she was trying to please him, the small, involuntary sounds she made when she breathed. He wasn't coming yet. He wanted to savor it.

Behind her, Sansa heard the familiar sounds: Jeyne's wet, rhythmic smacking, Joffrey's excited panting, growing faster and faster. A low, satisfied growl as he gripped Jeyne's hair tighter and guided her head for a few thrusts.

Sansa continued sucking. Her hands now rested on Harald's thighs—not to push him away, but for support. She felt the muscles twitch beneath her fingers, heard his breath catch when she went particularly deep or pressed her tongue especially hard against the sensitive spot beneath the head of his penis.

Jeyne was now completely naked as well. Her skimpy top and skirt lay somewhere behind her on the floor. Her body moved in rhythm—back and forth, back and forth—her breasts swaying gently with each movement, the bruises on her hips and thighs shimmering in the flickering candlelight.

Sansa heard everything. And kept sucking.

But suddenly, Harald's hand landed heavily on Sansa's shoulder and pushed her away. His cock slid from her mouth with a wet smacking sound, a long strand of saliva still hanging between her lower lip and the glistening head.

"Time for a real fuck," he breathed hoarsely, almost tenderly.

Before Sansa realized what was happening, he had already turned her around. Strong hands gripped her hips, pushing her down until she was on all fours—just like Jeyne. Her face was now only a foot away from Joffrey's lap. She saw everything: how Jeyne's lips closed rhythmically around the royal cock, how her friend's cheeks crumpled with each deep thrust, how Joffrey's fingers dug into her dark hair.

Harald knelt behind her. Sansa felt the heat of his body before she was even aware of anything else. Then came his long, slender cock—at first just the head, which slid slowly between her labia, parting them, rubbing against her entrance, then withdrawing again. He teased her. Tormented her with his mere proximity.

And the worst part: Sansa felt her body react. A telltale wetness, slippery and warm, made each thrust easier. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. No. Not this. Not now.

Then he thrust in.

A single, hard, deep thrust—and the air was knocked from Sansa's lungs.

She wanted to fight back, wanted to scream, wanted to crawl away—but Harald's hands gripped her hips like iron clamps. He held her firmly, exactly where he wanted her. His long shaft filled her completely, pressing against places she had never felt so intensely before. The pressure was overwhelming, almost painful—and yet… there was this throbbing deep in her womb, this unwelcome pull.

Harald began to move.

At first slowly, almost sensuously, he let her feel every inch as he nearly withdrew completely, only to thrust in again deeply and powerfully. Sansa gasped with each penetration, her arms trembling, her fingers digging into the dirty stone. Her breasts swung in time with his thrusts—back and forth, back and forth—the hard nipples brushing against the cold air with every movement.

He went faster. Deeper. Harder.

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The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with Jeyne's muffled moans and Joffrey's satisfied snorts. Sansa felt torn between shame and something else—something dark, animalistic. Each thrust sent ripples through her body, making her clitoris throb even though she didn't want it to. She hated herself for it. Hated that her pelvis involuntarily shifted back a little, meeting his attention. Hated that her breath came in gasps, that small, involuntary sounds escaped her throat—no longer screams, but gasps that sounded almost like moans.

Suddenly, Joffrey moved.

He stood up, roughly grabbed Jeyne by the hair, and dragged her right in front of Sansa. The two women stared at each other—eye to eye, only inches apart. Jeyne's gaze was gentle, almost pitiful. A tiny, sad smile flickered across her swollen lips, as if to say: It's okay. It's always like this.

Sansa couldn't answer. Harald continued fucking her, relentlessly, and with each thrust her body shook, her breasts bounced, a stifled "Ah!" escaped her throat.

Joffrey took another half step closer.

His cock—glistening wet with Jeyne's saliva—suddenly hovered precisely between their faces. He grasped their hair with both hands—Jeyne's right, Sansa's left—and pulled them closer.

"Lick," he commanded softly.

Sansa hesitated for only a second. Then she leaned forward. Her tongue first met Joffrey's shaft, slid down the side, and met Jeyne's tongue coming from the other side. The two tongues swirled around each other, circling the head, licking along the veins, sharing the salty taste. Joffrey groaned loudly—a high-pitched, almost childlike sound.

Sometimes he grabbed Jeyne's head with both hands and thrust deep into her mouth, fucking her throat with short, hard strokes until saliva dribbled from the corners of her mouth. Then he withdrew, turned Sansa's face toward him, and did the same to her. Sansa gagged briefly as he penetrated deeply, but she stayed still, letting him do it. Two cocks inside her—one in her pussy, the other in her mouth. Filled. Used.

Harald's thrusts became more irregular, more frantic. His grip on her hips tightened painfully. Then—a final, brutal thrust—and Sansa felt it: the heat surging deep inside her. Pulse after pulse, his semen splattered against her cervix, filling her. She felt every single thrust, felt how warm and sticky it remained inside her.

She almost came herself. The throbbing in her lower abdomen became unbearably intense, her clitoris twitched, its inner walls contracting spasmodically around his still-pulsating penis. She gritted her teeth, fought against it, hating herself with every fiber of her being for her body feeling pleasure where her mind knew only shame and hatred.

Harald slowly withdrew from her. A warm gush immediately flowed from her, dripping down her inner thighs onto the stone.

Meanwhile, Joffrey was panting more and more heavily himself. One last time, he thrust deep into Jeyne's mouth, letting her suck until her cheeks hollowed—then he withdrew, roughly turned Sansa's head toward him, and forced his penis between her lips.

He came instantly. Hot, thick spurts filled her mouth. Sansa gagged briefly, disgusted, but swallowed quickly, mechanically, before she could change her mind. The bitter, salty taste spread across her tongue. A drop dribbled from the corner of her mouth, hanging from her chin.

Joffrey pulled away, breathing heavily, grinning that narrow, triumphant grin.

Harald took a step back. Sansa slumped to all fours, trembling, semen still dripping from her, running down her thighs in thin strands.

Jeyne was still kneeling beside her—silent, obedient, with that gentle, empty smile.