Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones, it's characters, or any of its properties. I am not profiting from this in any way.

Prologue

"You should see my new blade. I've named it 'heart eater.'" Joffrey's grin widens as he draws the blade from his scabbard. "You'll kiss it now and you will kiss it again when it is drenched in Targaryen blood."

Her lips never touched the steel of his blade. Her lack of obedience was meant as an act of defiance and Sansa paid for that insolence with a slap from her king. The bruise on her cheek still stings as she carefully runs her fingers across the mark he left on it. Sansa regards the past with shame. She once believed Joffrey to the be the muse of romantic poems and hymns. Sansa bows her head as her shoulders carry the weight of her contrition. Joffrey is the penance - the iron price - and she must pay for the actions she'd taken in her naive thirst for love.

With her head still bowed, Sansa laces her hands together in prayer. Her prayers are to her father, her mother, and her three brothers - all whom have now fallen. She sends a soft prayer that Arya is alive, healthy and loved, wherever she may be. Her prayers come to Jon Targaryen, the man whose army lays siege to their land. Sansa prays for his victory and for his mercy, for no king in her eyes could be more deplorable than Joffrey Baratheon.

"Come here, little dove."

Interrupted from her prayer, Sansa's eyes rise to meet Cersei's. The Queen's well manicured fingers hold a glass of deep red wine between them and her eyes narrow with hatred. A staggered, coarse breath escapes Sansa as she rises to her feet, her legs feeling heavy as she takes several uneasy steps toward the Queen. Cersei lifts her free hand to Sansa's bruised cheek and cruelly pinches it between her thumb and index finger.

"Sit," she shouts as she tugs the girl downward.

Sansa's legs buckle, her knees colliding with the wooden floor panels beneath her. Cersei withdraws her hand and rests it in her lap as if it had been there all along. Their eyes meet, both sharing looks of contempt for one another.

"What were you doing," Cersei asks.

"Praying."

The Queen's lips twist into a snarl as she leans toward Sansa. "You're perfect, aren't you? Praying? What are you praying for?"

"For the gods to have mercy on us all." The words leave Sansa's lips in a soft, fearful whisper.

Cersei brings her wine glass to her lips as she studies her. "Oh? On all of us? Even me? Even Joffrey?"

Sansa's chest constricts as tries to force false words from her mouth. Her throat feels dry and coarse. She should say words of praise for her king, but she can no longer will herself to praise Joffrey. Not after all of the grief he has caused her. Not after killing her entire family, one by one...

"Of course not." Cersei's pupils dilate as her lips turn into a crude half smile. "You poor naive little fool. You haven't the slightest clue of what a Targaryen is capable of. You have not lived through their dynasty, nor have you seen their brutality with your own eyes. Poor, poor Brandon Stark…"

A smug smile crosses her lips as she draws the glass of wine to her mouth. Cersei sips and then exhales heavily. Her eyes fall onto Sansa once more, slightly unfocused but still so full of life. She taps the back of her hand against Sansa's bruised cheek in a intimidating gesture.

"A bruise is nothing to what that family is capable of." Cersei sets her glass aside and takes a spare cup in your hand.

"One for her," she says as she motions for her servant to fill it with wine. She offers the small glass to Sansa. "Here. Drink."

With trembling hands, Sansa takes the glass from the queen. She eyes Cersei warily as she brings the cup to her mouth and delicately sips at it.

"Not like that," Cersei insults. "Drink, girl."

Sansa tips the glass up a little higher and takes a significantly larger gulp. The dry taste of the red wine overwhelms her and she coughs after swallowing the liquid. Even after her cough subsides, her chest burns. She holds her small glass in both hands, staring down at the pool of red liquid at the bottom.

"I should have been born a man," Cersei bemoans. "I'd rather face a thousand swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens."

"They are your guests under your protection," Sansa reasons. "You asked them here."

"It - was - expected - of me." Cersei bites back, enunciating each word clearly.

"If my wretched brother should somehow prevail, these hens will return to their cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them - lifted their spirits."

"And, if the city shall fall?" Sansa asks.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Cersei's voice becomes cold. "The Red Keep should hold for some time - long enough for me to yield to Jon Targaryen in person. If he were anyone else's son I might have hoped for a private audience, but this is Lyanna's son and I am Robert's Queen. The tart loathed him enough to part her legs for Rhaegar Targaryen. The spiteful bitch will never allow me anywhere near her dear son. Drink."

Sansa obeys, taking another generous sip of her wine.

"You - you might be granted an audience. Does that excite you," Cersei taunts. "There's this saying…madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin and the whole world holds their breath. If I were you, little girl, I'd pray the city holds tonight."

Sansa's lips part to expel a soft gasp at the Queen's words. "And, if the city should fall?"

Cersei's eyes seem to dance with some sick form of humor at her question. "Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked?"

Sansa does not answer her. She raises her glass to her lips and devours the last of her wine as the answer becomes apparent to her.

"If this city falls, you and all of these women should be in for a bit of a rape." The Queen's jaw is clenched as she enunciates each cruel word. "When a man's blood is up anything with tits looks good. A precious girl like you to a mad Targaryen conqueror will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten. I wonder…will he live up to his grandfather's savagery, hmm? Perhaps you'll regret all your silly little prayers then."

Sansa's glass slips from her hand and breaks against the wooden floor. Cersei chuckles at her as she reaches to grasp her chin with her free hand. "Did your father ever tell you how your grandfather died?"

Sansa nods into Cersei's hand as dread fills her. The sound of the door being forced open startles Sansa. Her fear subsides as one of Cersei's knights rushes to her. Cersei releases her grip on Sansa's chin and rises to her feet. Sansa expels a deep breath as she shudders involuntarily.

"Your grace," the knight shouts.

"What news," Cersei asks in reply.

"Lord Tyrion has fallen." His voice is filled with terror. "The Targaryen army is overpowering our forces."

"Where is Joffrey," Cersei asks.

"On the battlements, your grace," the man says.

"Bring him back inside at once," Cersei commands.

Sansa rises to her feet. She scans the room for her handmaiden, Shae. There is a defeated look in Shae's eyes. The woman blinks away her tears as her gaze lifts to meet Sansa's as the girl approaches her and smiles weakly.

"We've lost," Shae says. "You must leave the queen's sight. Go to your room. Bar your door. You carry the Stark name. That name is enough that Jon will grant you mercy."

Shae takes Sansa's wrist in her hand and guides towards the open door. She caresses Sansa's bruised cheek before brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear.

"Come with me," Sansa pleads in a soft, desperate whisper.

Shae's gaze falls to the floor as another tear slips down her cheek. "I must grieve. Sansa. Forget about me. Forget about the Queen's words and Joffrey's threats. Go to your chambers and stay there until this is all over."

"But…"

"Go," Shae urges her. "Jon won't hurt you, but he will." She silently gestures to Gregor Clegane.

Shae steps away from Sansa, her lips pressing into a hard line. She gives Sansa a small shove and turns away from her. Sansa pauses to think. To stay would indicate an allegiance to King Joffrey and the Queen. To leave might make her appear independent from them. Sansa tenses. She makes her choice. She draws in one final breath before she makes for the door.