The following days dragged on in a dull, gray monotony. Sansa heard no word from Joffrey. No message, no casual glance, no invitation. Instead, her mind remained filled with memories of that night in the dark alley, of Jeyne, of Steelstorm, and the oppressive feeling that something powerful was brewing in the shadows in King's Landing.
Her thoughts spun around.
Sometimes she longed for Joffrey's attention, sometimes she was filled with worry for Jeyne and the inexplicable secret her friend carried with her.
A few days later—it was a hot, windless afternoon—Sansa and Jeyne returned from a long singing lesson. They had been rehearsing courtly ballads with other noblewomen, but Sansa's mind was elsewhere. So was Jeyne.
"Come, let's visit my father," Sansa had said.
"Perhaps he has a moment."
Jeyne hesitated but then nodded.
They climbed the stairs of the Tower of the Hand; the air in the stone corridors was oppressive. As they reached the study and were about to enter, they heard voices—and Sansa shivered as she recognized one of them.
"Steelstorm."
There, in the high-ceilinged room with the large windows, stood the bald man from that night. At his side was Lord Varys, the plump eunuch with his silky-smooth tone and constant, polite kindness that acted like a mask.
Ned Stark seemed tense, his face grave and tired.
When the door opened, the conversation died down, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Steelstorm looked at Sansa and Jeyne in surprise—even his usually hard gaze seemed to flicker for a moment.
"Lady Sansa. Lady Jeyne," Varys crooned with his usual smile that never reached his eyes.
"How good to see you in such a dark place."
Sansa felt her heart pounding.
She forced a smile and pretended everything was as usual.
"Father, I... I saw a new dress at the seamstresses. I was wondering if..."
Ned Stark paused, studied his daughter, and a hint of warmth crept into his stern features.
"Of course, my child."
He reached into his purse, pressed some silver coins into her hand, and gave her a quick hug.
Sansa felt the eyes on her.
Varys's curious kindness. Steelstorm's suspicious silence.
Jeyne's restlessness.
"Come, let's not keep Lady Anya waiting," Jeyne said quickly, pulling Sansa by the arm out of the room.
As they left the hall and finally stood alone again in one of the quieter corridors of the tower, Sansa blurted out.
"Who is this man? Why does Father know him? What is he doing in there?"
Jeyne looked at her for a moment, as if she were about to say something—but then her gaze averted.
"As far as I know, he used to be in the City Watch. He got into trouble with superiors, something to do with theft or disobeying orders. Now he's a thief and smuggler."
She paused.
"But why is he talking to your father... I don't know."
Sansa felt uneasy.
That explained nothing. It was a mosaic of dark fragments that didn't form a picture.
Why was a thief and smuggler talking to Ned Stark? And what did Varys have to do with it?
King's Landing seemed to be one dark chess move, with no one knowing who was moving the pieces.
In the days following the encounter in the Tower of the Hand, the image of Steelstorm never left Sansa's mind. Again and again, she asked Jeyne, again and again she secretly sought conversations with the servants, with guards, with handmaidens who might know something.
But no one knew more than the same vague stories.
A former soldier, a City Watchman, dishonorably discharged. Today a man for dirty jobs and risky deals. Some called him a thief, others a middleman for those who preferred to remain undetected.
But what did he have to do with her father?
Sansa searched the halls, eavesdropped on conversations, watched who came and went. But King's Landing was a labyrinth of lies and half-truths. And soon she realized that her search left nothing but perplexity.
For the time being, she gave up the search, partly because another event was supposed to distract her. One of the handmaidens, a quiet girl with bright eyes, handed her a folded piece of parchment.
"For you, my lady," she had breathed, and immediately withdrawn.
Sansa's heart pounded as she read the lines:
"Tonight. South wing. Like last time."
Joffrey.
The name flashed through her mind; a shiver of excitement and fear ran through her. Her thoughts raced.
Finally. He had thought of her again.
She clung to the hope that perhaps he was once again the gentle prince who had once told her of songs and battles on the riverbank. The boy who had promised her his love.
But at the same time, there was this gnawing in her chest.
Why the south wing again?
Why this cold, gloomy place with its dark pillars and the musty smell of old walls and iron?
Would they be alone?
Would that Noemi be there again—the strange woman with the mysterious gaze and the gentle voice?
Sansa felt torn.
The longing for Joffrey's attention was like a rush she couldn't shake, even as her mind warned against it.
She pressed the note to her chest, closed her eyes, and felt her heart racing.
The evening fell slowly over the city, letting the light of the setting sun glide in blood-red streaks across the rooftops of King's Landing.
Sansa stood in front of the mirror in her chamber while Jeyne helped her adjust her clothes.
The dress was made of fine, golden silk, its sheen shimmering in the flickering candlelight. A narrow, black hem framed the delicate seams, making the color appear even warmer, even richer. The skirt was long in the back, clinging in soft folds over her knees, while it was cut shorter in the front, revealing much of her slender legs—more than Sansa had ever worn in such a gown.
The V-neck revealed delicate skin, the gentle rise and fall of her breast. Not offensive—but bold by court standards.
Jeyne had stood behind Sansa, adjusted her dress, placed a few gold pins in her hair, and said with a mischievous grin,
"This dress would make any man weak."
Sansa had chuckled, even though it made her stomach churn.
Now, alone, she ran her hands over the smooth silk, took a deep breath, and tried to calm the nervous pounding of her heart.
Would Joffrey see her in this dress, would he...?
Would he be that gentle boy again, offering her his hand? Would he kiss her and whisper that she would one day be queen?
Or would that strange, cold look be in his eyes again?
Why the south wing?
Why not godswood, the Court Garden, or a dance under the soft candlelight?
She didn't know the answer.
The halls were silent when she finally set out. Only the muffled echo of her footsteps on the stone slabs accompanied her. The shadows of the torches danced on the walls, and the thick walls of the south wing seemed to swallow the light.
Every step made her heartbeat faster.
Every silence in the dark corridors made the tension grow within her.
The memory of last night here, of Noemi, of Sansa's own orgasm—it still burned beneath her skin.
And yet... she wanted it.
Wanted to be seen. Loved. Desired.
She stopped at the great iron gate, took a deep breath, and placed a trembling hand on the cold handle.
She didn't know what to expect.
The space between the dungeons was bathed in the dim torchlight. Joffrey stood there, his skin glistening slightly in the light that filtered through the bars. He did indeed wear a robe of black leather, which made him look almost like a dark god. As Sansa approached, he smiled. A simple, almost ugly smile, but one that momentarily eased her uncertainty. She smiled back when he was alone.
His hand gently touched her cheek, a touch that lingered only briefly before he wrapped his hand firmly around the back of her neck. His fingers dug lightly into her flesh. He pulled her toward him, and when their mouths met, it wasn't a tender kiss, but something else. Desiring. Almost rough. His tongue invaded her mouth, demanding, dominant. He kissed her not with tenderness, but with the intention of conquering her.
"Now we're in the dungeon," he said softly when he finally let go of her. His eyes sparkled in the dim light. "This is where I bring all my slaves to fuck." He grinned slightly, a grimace of power. "What do you think I'm going to do with you?"
Sansa flinched. In this muted setting, with the metallic clang of the bars all around her, each of his words seemed to take on an added edge. She wasn't a slave after all; it flashed through her mind.
"I don't know, my prince," she breathed, her voice sounding a little too small for the size of the dungeon.
Joffrey gave a short laugh, a dry, spiteful sound. "Oh, you'll soon know."
He put an arm around her waist and pulled her even closer. His hand slid between her legs and lifted her skirt. "I'm going to take your virginity." The words were spoken simply, almost as if it were a simple plan.
Sansa swallowed hard. Her virginity? Here and now? Not on their upcoming wedding night? The very idea filled her with shame and an unexpected, almost panicky fear.
"Yes? But I... I thought," she stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence. She had already imagined in her mind a dream of a romantic, dignified act with him.
"That I won't fuck you until you're my wife?" Joffrey continued, each word followed by a soft laugh.
"You won't be my wife until I know if it's worth it," he concluded. The words hung in the air, heavy and threatening.
Sansa trembled uncontrollably. She no longer felt desire, only fear and shame. What should she say? How should she overcome this? She knew she had no choice. If she disobeyed him, he might pay less attention to her, perhaps forget her altogether.
"Undress," Joffrey commanded, a hiss in his voice. His hand on her neck felt firm, almost intimidating.
Sansa studied him briefly. She knew there was no way out. She had seen Joffrey treat other women. And now she stood here, naked and vulnerable, while he was in a position of power. If she didn't give him what he wanted, she would lose him.
So, she nodded slowly and undressed. Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped the dress over her head and removed it. She felt chilly at the thought of the dungeon, the cold stones beneath her feet. When her body was completely naked, she stood there, the torches casting shadows on her skin, practically feeling Joffrey's gaze on her naked form.
"And get on all fours," he hissed restlessly as he began to unfasten his robe. His movements were deft, almost precise.
Sansa nodded again and began to crawl. Her knees buckled slightly as she dropped to the floor. She spread her legs and looked directly at the bars in front of her. Her lower lip trembled slightly. "So, my lord?" she asked uncertainly, hoping fervently that this nightmare would soon end.
Joffrey's fingers dug into Sansa's hips, his voice a low growl in her ear. "That's right, you little slut." He positioned himself behind her, his cock already hard and thick at her entrance. With a ragged grunt, he thrust forward, piercing her hymen.
It wasn't gentle. Sansa gasped, a sharp intake of breath that turned into a strangled sob as he entered her deeply. His sheer width stretched her tight opening, and it felt like she was about to burst. Pain radiated from her core, a burning sting that took her breath away and dimmed the candlelight in her eyes.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to enter her again. Hard and deep again. The pressure was enormous, filling her completely and stretching her inexperienced pussy. "You're tight," he gasped, his thrusts becoming even more violent. "But not tight enough to stop me from taking what I want."
Sansa cried out, not in pleasure, but in pure shock at the pain and sheer violation. Tears streamed down her face, hot and stinging, blurring her vision. The pain was intense, a raw, tearing sensation centered entirely on her cunt. Instinctively, she tensed her muscles and tried to push him away, but Joffrey just laughed, a harsh, rasping sound.
He thrust his hips into her relentlessly. Again and again, he buried himself deep until his pelvis slapped against her buttocks. Each thrust triggered a new wave of agony. He ignored her whimpers, his attention solely on his own pleasure. He thrust into her quickly, his movements becoming brutal.
The initial shock and pain slowly subsided, replaced by a dull ache and the overwhelming presence filling her body. Joffrey was still too big, too hard, and the stretch was immense. He moved with a raw, primal desire, grinding against her, seeking depth with each thrust. His fingers tightened around her hips, penetrating deeper with each grinding motion.
He reached between her and twisted the sensitive tip of her clitoris. Another sensation mingled with the pain. It wasn't pleasurable yet, just another layer of unwanted stimulation. Joffrey saw her face contort with exertion. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "You feel good, birdie. Completely willing and ready for your prince."
Sansa tried to focus on breathing, but it was difficult. With each painful thrust, her breath caught in her throat. She felt her body tremble, not just with tension, but also with pure fear. The feeling of being completely filled by such a large cock, coupled with the harshness of his movements, was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was a pure, unadulterated invasion.
Sansa seemed to be slowly getting used to the feeling, even though it still hurt. Her pussy had laboriously adjusted to the thick cock penetrating deep inside her. But Joffrey had other plans than letting Sansa enjoy her first time.
He withdrew his cock, and the blood from her deflowering was visible at the tip. "A whore needs her ass fucked too," he sneered. Sansa couldn't suppress a cry as he thrust again, burning pain rippling through her body. Now he was fucking her anally, regardless of her pain.
Sansa felt deeply humiliated. This wasn't how she had imagined her first time. Her hands clenched the cold bars as Joffrey thrust relentlessly into her. The slapping sound of his pelvis slapping against her buttocks, faster and faster, mingled with her pained cries.
The seconds stretched into minutes, the minutes into a small eternity. But finally, with a throaty groan, Joffrey climaxed and came deep inside her. "Now you're mine, slut," he gasped before withdrawing his limp cock. A final drop of cum trickled down her buttock and dripped onto the cold stone floor.
Left all alone, it took Sansa a long time to recover from the traumatic experience. Sobbing and trembling, she crouched on the floor as tears streamed down her cheeks. Why did Joffrey treat her so cruelly? Why couldn't he simply love her? Why did he enjoy watching her suffer so much?
Almost an hour passed before Sansa finally got to her feet and, with trembling hands, put her dress back on. Every step was painful, and in the days that followed, she tried to avoid sitting as much as possible. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental anguish Joffrey had inflicted on her.
