Sunlight filters softly through the tall windows, illuminating the rich tapestries and carved wood paneling of the throne room. The air is filled with the smell of morning bread wafting from the kitchens and the sounds of the servants' animated whispers. Sansa stands at the window of her room in the Red Keep, looking out over the bustling streets of the capital, her arms folded across her chest, a thousand thoughts spinning in her head.

I must be perfect today, Sansa thinks, adjusting her rose-embroidered cloak. Joffrey must not see me weak. I will act like a queen.

A knock on the door breaks her from her thoughts. It is Septa Mordane, reminding her to meet in the throne room. Sansa sighs and nods, following her through the endless corridors of the castle. She feels the eyes of the guards and courtiers on her, but tries to ignore them. Her sandal glides silently across the stone floor until they stop in front of the massive doors carved with lions.

"It will be all right," Sansa tells herself as she steps inside. She lifts her head, feigning confidence, but her heart beats faster with every step. The courtiers have already gathered in the hall. Somewhere in the back, she sees Joffrey, who smiles at her, cold and arrogant. The look makes her think back to the last few days, but she quickly pushes the memories away, focusing on not showing her feelings.

"Good morning, my lady," a voice says behind her. Sansa turns to see Petyr Baelish approaching. His gaze slides over her, and he smiles, his usual enigmatic smile. "You're looking more and more like a queen."

Sansa nods, her throat tightening with worry. She knows this could be a turning point in her life. As always, she will have to play her part - the role of the obedient and loving bride. If only she could hold out until the end of the day.

"I am strong," she repeats to herself, stepping into the center of the room. "I am a Stark of Winterfell."