Sansa Stark

The air in the Great Hall is heavy with the smell of sweat, sour wine, and fear. Torches crackle, casting distorted shadows on the stone columns. The echo of each of the king's words resounds like a death sentence.

I am on my knees on the cold stone floor, my blue silk dress already in tatters, hanging by its threads. My face burns where the blows landed. My eyes are fixed on the ground, silent tears streaming down my face, but I refuse to sob. If I cry, it will only get worse.

Joffrey (smiling, his voice echoing through the hall):
— What's wrong, uncle? She's just the daughter of a traitor. I can do whatever I want with her.

I flinch, anticipating the next blow. Ser Meryn Trant stands beside me, his hand on his sword hilt, awaiting the next order. The Hound stands in the shadows, his face obscured by armor, but I feel his eyes on me.

I look up for a second, meeting your gaze in the silent crowd.

Sansa (whispering, her voice breaking):
Please...