Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web

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

“Once you can bear children, I will get you pregnant,” Joffrey said, escorting her across the practice yard. “If the firstborn is an idiot, I’ll have your head chopped off at once and find myself a cleverer wife. When will you be able to bear children?”

Shamed like this, Sansa couldn’t meet his eyes. “Septa Mordane says most… most noble ladies come into their womanhood at twelve or thirteen.”

Joffrey nodded. “This way.” He led her into the gatehouse of the Red Keep and to the bottom of the steps that wound up to the battlements.

Sansa jerked away from him, trembling, suddenly understanding where he was taking her. “No,” she gasped, terror in her voice. “Please, don’t, please don’t take me there, I beg you…”

Joffrey’s lips tightened. “I want you to see what happens to traitors!”

Sansa shook her head wildly. “No, I don’t want to see.”

“I could have Ser Meryn drag you up,” he said, “but you wouldn’t like that. You’d best do as you’re told.” Joffrey reached for her. Sansa backed away, and bumped into the Hound.

“Little bird, be good,” Sandor Clegane said, pushing her back toward the king. The corner of his mouth twitched for a moment on the burned side of his face, and Sansa could almost hear the words he did not say: He’ll get you up there one way or another, so you might as well do as he wants.

She forced herself to take King Joffrey’s arm. The climb was a nightmare, each step a struggle, as difficult as pulling her feet from knee-deep mud. The stairs seemed endless, thousands upon thousands of them, and at the top, on the ramparts, boundless terror awaited her.

From the battlements atop the gatehouse, the whole world lay spread out below. Sansa could see the Great Sept of Baelor atop Visenya’s Hill, where her father had died. At the far end of the Street of the Silent Sisters stood the charred ruins of the Dragonpit. To the west, the red sun was half-hidden behind the Gate of the Gods. Behind her, the waters of Blackwater Bay. To the south were the fish market, the wharfs, and the broad rush of the Blackwater Rush, and to the north…

She looked north, at the city, the streets, the alleys, the hills… more streets and alleys, and the walls far in the distance. Yet she knew that beyond all this worldly turmoil lay open fields, farms, and forests, and beyond them, further and further and further north, Winterfell, home.

“What are you looking at?” Joffrey said. “I want you to look at this, here.”

A thick stone parapet ran around the outer edge of the ramparts, reaching to Sansa’s chin, crenellated every five feet with embrasures for archers. It was between these crenels, atop the walls, that the heads had been placed, impaled on iron spears, facing the city. Sansa had noticed them as soon as she stepped onto the ramparts, but the view of the river, the bustling streets, and the sunset had been so lovely. He can make me look, she told herself, but I don’t have to see.

“This one is your father,” he said. “This one here. Hound, turn his head around so she can see.”

Sandor Clegane reached out and turned the head in the air. The severed head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer. Sansa looked calmly at her father’s head, her face expressionless. It doesn’t look like Lord Eddard, she thought. It doesn’t look real. “How long would you have me look, Your Grace?”

Joffrey seemed almost disappointed. “Would you like to see the others?” There were a dozen heads along the battlements.

“If it pleases Your Grace.”

So Joffrey led her along the walkway, past a dozen heads, and two empty spears. “Those two are for my uncles Stannis and Renly,” he explained. The others had been dead longer than her father, their heads on spikes for a longer time. Though they had been dipped in tar, most were difficult to recognize. The king pointed to one. “That one is your septa.” But Sansa could not tell that it had been a woman’s head. The chin had rotted away entirely, and birds had eaten one ear and most of one cheek.

Sansa had wondered what had become of Septa Mordane. Perhaps she had known all along. “Why did you kill her?” she asked. “She was only a pious…”

“She was a traitor.” Joffrey looked sullen. She seemed to be annoying him. “You still haven’t decided what to give me for my nameday. Perhaps I shall give you a gift instead. How would you like that?”

“If it pleases Your Grace,” Sansa said.

He smiled, and she knew he was mocking her. “Your brother is a traitor too, you know.” He turned Septa Mordane’s head back around. “I remember visiting Winterfell and seeing your brother. My dog called him the boy who played with wooden swords, didn’t you, good dog?”

“Did I?” the Hound replied. “I don’t recall.”

Joffrey shrugged petulantly. “Your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother said he only won by trickery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are weak creatures, even her, though she pretends to be so strong. She said we must remain in King’s Landing in case my uncles attack, but I don’t care. After my nameday feast, I will raise an army and kill your brother myself. That is the gift I shall give you, Sansa Stark, your brother’s head.”

A sudden wildness came over her, and she heard herself say, “Perhaps my brother will bring you your head as a gift.”

Joffrey frowned. “You are not to make japes at me. A good wife does not jest at her husband. Ser Meryn, teach her.”

This time the knight held her chin in a tight grip as he struck her. He hit her twice, once on the left side and then harder on the right. Her lip burst, and blood ran down her chin, mixing with her tears, salty.

“You must not go about with such a long face,” Joffrey told her. “You are prettier when you smile.”

Sansa forced a smile, afraid that he would have Ser Meryn hit her again if she did not. But even her smile did not please him. The king shook his head in disgust. “Wipe the blood off. You look a fright.”

The outer parapet reached to her chin, but the walkway inside had no protection at all, and it was seventy or eighty feet down to the yard below. One good shove, she told herself. He was right there, right there, grinning his wormy little grin. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it. It did not matter if she died too. It did not matter at all.

“Come, little bird.” Sandor Clegane knelt down before her, placing himself between her and Joffrey. He wiped the blood from her split lip with a surprisingly gentle touch, a gesture so unexpected from such a huge man.

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