I should be dead. Perhaps it'd be better if I was, but if I allow myself to die then the stupid whore on my throne will truly win. When the bitch granted me the mercy of banishment instead of death, she didn't expect me to last. Yet, here I am, eight years later and I am still alive. She should have known better than to underestimate a Lannister. I was smart. I knew the South was no place for me so I started North. I've been wandering the wasteland of the border ever since.
I might die now, even though I can't. Each day that passes gets colder and I have not seen people for nearly four days. Spending one more night in the cold will likely kill me. I'll chance it anyway. I've been walking for hours and I can't walk anymore. It shouldn't be this way. I should be surrounded by warmth and wrapped in silk. I should have a Queen to warm my bed and servants to cater to my every need. Instead I'm surrounded in cold and wrapped in wet snow with no one close enough to find.
With a prayer (though they've been of no use to me since they took my crown) to the gods to spare my life this night, I close my eyes.
When I wake, I'm warm, covered in furs I did not fall asleep in. I open my eyes to gray. I jerk slightly when I realize the furs belong to a living animal, a large wolf. I scream, though I'd have denied it had there been anyone there to deny it to. I shove the offending creature from me and suddenly regret it. The large wolf snarls at me before it starts to pat away.
"No!" I call out, realizing that without the terrible beast I would not have survived the night at all.
The creature stops, rearing its massive head to look at me. Its eyes narrow slightly and I freeze when a memory of those same eyes takes over me. I then realize the wolf is not a wolf but a direwolf, the run away direwolf of the princess in the North. I smirk at the memory, realizing that the little princess will be wanting her beast back. I have changed much since my days as a king. My hair is long and styled like a Northman, my cloths are wool, my cloak is dirty and patched, and my skin is rough and blistered from cold. No Stark will ever recognize me. I can bring the beast to Winterfell and my old betrothed will likely give me gold for it.
The journey was long and hard but it is worth it when I hear the yells as I approach the castle. Guards call out for someone to get the Queen and not for the first time I think of the girl that would have been my wife had circumstances not changed.
When I am taken to the Great Hall, the large direwolf starts circling the room. My eyes widen as Northmen knights and Queensguard line the room. I stiffen when I realize that I can recognize many of their faces. I see my wife's brother Loras, Sansa's bastard brother, my own brother Tommen, and my Uncle Jaime. Did she take in every misfit of the South the whore did not want? I would smile if it is not for the fact that should any of these traitors recognize me they will separate my head from my shoulders before their Queen ever knew I was here.
I turn to the large double doors as two knights open them. Sansa sweeps in with a large smile on her pretty face. She's dressed in a long summer gown of blue silk with a bronze and iron sword crown placed gently on her fire red hair. Two women come in behind her; both dressed in heavy fur cloaks. I swallow as I realize that I know them both, my wife and my sister. A large woman stands behind the three of them, her hand placed on the hilt of her sword, ready to protect her Queen in a way my white cloaks never did.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Sansa greets me passionately, her eyes wide with laughter and love and her arms outstretched. Like all the others she does not recognize me and I'm grateful for it. Her eyes drift to the large direwolf so I take a moment to observe her.
Sansa Stark has changed dramatically in the eight years of the whore's reign. She's still as tall as a man and the color of her hair, her skin, and her eyes are the same. It is everything else about her that has changed. The hair that used to lay in southern styles now flies freely with nothing but the crown to confine it. Her unblemished skin that used to glow in the summer sun is covered in ugly scars. The eyes that used to enchant the men of my court are wide and wet and wild. She no longer holds herself with grace and poise. Her entire demeanor is different, off putting, as if she has a slight sickness of the mind.
I watch as she sweeps forward towards the direwolf, revealing the open back of her dress. I may not be a Northman and the castle may be warm in comparison to the outdoors but everyone other then her is cloaked in heavy furs, including her former crow of a brother. It is like the cold does not touch her.
With a too wide smile she reaches for the beast and I stiffen slightly. I wonder if the direwolf will harm her, but as quick as the thought enters my mind it leaves. Her large woman must wonder the same as she strays closer and her sword hand tightens. The great beast steps towards Sansa as if it was just waiting for her to make the first move. It nuzzles her hand like a horse and Sansa laughs, burying her arms in the fur of the beast before turning to a guard.
"Gendry, run for Arya and bring her here to us," Sansa says with smile too wide and too happy.
The man nods and retreats quickly, leaving the throne room silent aside from Sansa's laughter. I watch as she strokes the direwolf's fur with affection. I start shifting from foot to foot, unsure what I should be doing. I'm saved when Arya comes through the door like a cold wind on a summer's day.
She looks nothing like her sister. The younger Stark daughter stands tall and controlled, dressed in boiled leathers with her brown hair twisted up and away from her face. She's dirty and her hands are rough from a sword but she looks every bit as beautiful as my father once described Lyanna.
"Nymeria!" she calls happily. The beast pushes passed Sansa, running to the princess of the North.
Sansa stumbles back and stands there, frozen. Her glazed eyes stay on the direwolf and her arms stay bent slightly out towards the beast. Margaery and Myrcella go to her quickly, whispering soft words to their Queen.
"No," Sansa cries like a child as the two women gently lead her from the throne room, followed by the large woman and my father.
"Thank you for returning Nymeria to us," the Stark bastard tells me stiffly. "You are welcome to a bed for the night."
I nod to him, thankful for the bed but annoyed that they will not give me gold for returning their precious beast. He nods his return before leaving, to comfort Sansa no doubt. The rest of the Queensguard and guards file out after him. I notice Tommen looking over his shoulder as they leave and for a moment I fear he recognizes me.
"Thank you for returning her to me," Arya says, stepping towards me. I laugh at the irony but I pass it off as a friendly.
"Of course, a direwolf for a Stark," I reply with a charming smile, one I gave her sister in another lifetime.
"Come, I will show you to your solar for the night."
We walk in silence for a while before we stop outside the door of an all too familiar room. I feel sweat pool at my brow as I realize she must know who I am.
"The second Mad King once slept in this room," she tells me with a laugh, "Robb said he complained about it all morning in the playcourt the next day. No Northmen will sleep here, but it is our last room."
I let out a sigh of relief that it's just a coincidence before raising an eyebrow at the first statement.
"Second Mad King?"
She laughs, stronger then Sansa ever did, "That's what they've named him. If you'd ever met the boy you'd understand. He loved no one but himself. I hear when the Dragon Queen granted him the mercy of a banishment he left like a scared little girl without a word in defense of his wife or siblings. If it was not for Sansa defending Myrcella, Margery, Tommen, and Jaime then they'd have all lost their heads, especially Jaime. Sansa fell to her knees and sobbed for him and without her he'd be long dead. Those Sansa granted clemency are some of her fiercest supporters."
"Is it why she's still Queen?" I ask, even though a commoner would never be so forward. I can tell I should not have asked when Arya's face darkens, but she speaks anyway.
"Joffrey did that to her," she hisses angrily and my feet step back on their own accord. "Joffrey tormented her. My sister was selfish and naïve of the world but she was also kind and would have been a great wife to him had he let her. She truly loved him and he repaid her by cutting off our father's head and humiliating her every chance he got." She looks like she's about to say more but she doesn't and I'm thankful.
"I am sorry I asked, your highness."
"Do not call me that, everyone calls me Arya and you will as well. I must go now, but I will return to collect you for the feast tonight."
"Feast?" I ask. What could they possibly have to celebrate?
"Every night we open the doors to the village and anyone close enough to come. We feed them and keep them warm for the evening. People bring instruments and play so others can dance. Sansa insisted on it when she was crowned."
I nod and she leaves as I go inside to ponder.
Later that night I hear a knock at my door and when I open it I'm surprised to see Arya standing there. She looks so different now. She's dressed in a simple brown riding dress with her hair still pinned up, but somehow beautiful in her simplicity. Her direwolf is only a few paces behind her.
"Come on, before the foods eaten without us," Arya chastises as she waves me to follow her.
"Of course," I say as I follow her. We walk in silence until she finally asks me a question. "You look lovely."
Arya laughs, "I hate this stupid thing, but Sansa insists and I cannot deny her anything anymore. Much has been taken from her and she's never been the same. I would kill every man and woman in the world to see her smile, as would all here at Winterfell."
"She is quite lucky to have you."
Arya smiles, nodding her head in a way that tells me she's done with the conversation.
"Do you plan to stay in Winterfell?" she asks suddenly
I stop and think about it. I have no coin, no home, no food to eat, and no skills worth much. I can gain all those things at Winterfell but I would also be surrounded by people I knew in a past life that would kill me between the beats of a heart. Still, would it not be advantageous to be in the good graces of the princess and heir of Winterfell? She's thankful for the return of her direwolf, would she be as easy to charm as her sister was? If I can make her love me, my children will be rulers of the North and I can use them to invade the South. I can reclaim my throne, become ruler once again.
"I haven't thought much of it Arya."
"I think you should. You returned Nymeria to me and while we haven't much coin to spare we can grant you shelter. Have you a trade?"
"No I do not. I am the third son of one of the many displaced lords after the Dragon Queen usurped the throne," I reply, as good a cover as any.
"She did not usurp the throne, it was hers by right of birth," she defends angrily.
"My apologizes," I say even though I want to strike her for her words. The Dragon Queen holds no right to the throne, it was always meant to be mine.
"What family? What is your name?"
"Joff, named after your Second Mad King, but my family is gone and the world is better for it," I lie.
"I see," she says as we enter the Great Hall. It's lively and full of people laughing and conversing. The musicians are playing a rowdy song already and men are coaxing women onto the dance floor. I see Uncle Jaime sweeping Myrcella across the dance floor and the bastard Stark twirling Sansa.
"Who is the one—" I trail off when I realize Arya is no longer with me but sitting next to Gendry at the high table. For some reason I am disappointed but find a seat myself among the common folk. I am half way through my meal when Tommen sits next to me. He places his hand tightly around my upper arm and leans in, his eyes never leaving Sansa, and tells me to go with him.
When we get outside I see his eyes for the first time. They are angry and dark and nothing close to how they once were. The war and the North have both hardened my brother.
"What are you doing here brother?" he asks me.
"I came to return the direwolf," I reply simply.
"You need to go, stay the night because if you did not you'd be suspicious, but then on the morrow you must go. Her Grace is only just getting better and I will not have you harm her again," he threatens angrily, his hand tight on his sword.
"Tommen, that was another life. I am different then I once was. I have nothing for me and Sansa need never have to know. I can have a good life here serving her—" I'm cut off by a rustle. The air leaves my lungs when Arya emerges. I fear for a moment that she heard us.
"Tommen, Sansa is looking for you. She would like a dance."
Tommen nods before disappearing into Great Hall again.
"I've been looking for you Joff. I spoke with Jon and he believes you'd be of good use teaching the peasant children to read." She stops for a moment, observing me carefully. I must look relieved. "Tommen seems to know you, and he appears not to like you much. If you wish to do well here you will gain him as an ally. Myrcella and Tommen were two of only a few that ever cared for Sansa in the capital; she holds them both in very high regard," she says, disappearing into the feast where I follow her.
"Of course Arya," I say as we both overlook the hall of people, "I will take care in how I speak to him. Your Queen is ever generous to allow me to stay."
"She is," Arya agrees, running off when she notices her bastard brother free of his dancing partner.
"Her Queen? Do you mean to say you do not bend the knee to Her Grace as well?" a sweet voice says from behind me.
I feel my insides clench at the voice. Carefully I turn my head to confirm what I already know. Margaery stands tall behind me, her dark hair piled high on her head in a southern style. It is clear that despite the many years she must have had in the North, that she has not adapted to it's style or customs.
"I am not of the North," I smooth quickly, thankful Arya did not catch my slip, "She will become my Queen in time I suppose."
Margaery smiles and I immediately feel a wave of uneasiness come over me. She steps closer, so we are both overlooking the Great Hall and its many occupants. "She is magnificent," she says, her eyes locking on Sansa who is sweeping across the floor with Tommen, "and so very, very loved. If anyone were to ever raise their hand to her they'd be dead before she even noticed the danger. We are fierce in our love for our Queen. No one will ever harm her again."
I struggle to remain motionless when she turns her head to face me. Her smile stretches wider across her face and I wonder if she's recognizes me, her words too calculated to be anything other then a threat. I expect her to continue but she doesn't, instead gathering her skirt in her hands and sweeping away without another word.
Deciding to not fret over whether or not Margaery recognized me or Tommen's threat, I take the hand of one of the many Northern women and dance with her well into the night.
Just as I am about to turn in, I realize that Arya and Gendry have vanished from the hall. For some reason the thought of what they could be doing is bothersome to me, but before I can let my mind wander to far, a hand grasps my arm. I turn around to find Myrcella standing there. She's grown taller and her hair's grown longer but other then that she has not changed. I bite my inner cheek and wonder if I will be confronted by everyone of the South on my first night.
"My Lady?" I ask, praying she has not recognized me like our shared brother. Myrcella and I were never close in our youth, but they say I was always kindest to her.
"You brought the direwolf," she says with a pretty smile, "I'd like to thank you. Queen Sansa has not smiled since the end of the long summer." She turns to look over at the throne where the bastard Stark is setting her down; he is smiling and patting her hand while the direwolf nuzzles her other.
When Sansa is properly sitting, with Margaery watching carefully not very far, both the large direwolf and the white direwolf sit at her feet. Sansa is smiling proud as she curls her fingers into their furs.
"I cannot thank you enough Ser," she says softly.
"The pleasure is mine Lady…?" I trail off, hoping it comes across as a question as I should not know her name.
"Myrcella Waters," she says with a sad smile, "I am a bastard."
"A bastard?" I ask in surprise, I would have thought Sansa would allow Myrcella to keep our Baratheon name for which was born to us.
"I was once Myrcella Baratheon, Princess of Westeros, but that was a lifetime ago and my father was not my father at all it seems. My life is the better for it, serving Her Grace is an honor and she has treated me well." Myrcella looks at me with eyes wide and trusting, so different from our shared brother's. I can see that the war has not jaded her as it has him. She is still sweet and kind, though of course Myrcella spent her life under our mother's watchful eye and then she was sent off to Drone where I hear she spent her days swimming and laughing until the Dragon Queen called for her to be returned to King's Landing.
"Myrcella," a Northern voice calls before I can reply.
We both look up to see the bastard Stark walking towards us. He is not smiling but his eyes are, and not for me. Myrcella, much more beautiful then our mother ever was, blushes under his gaze. While a voice within me screams that a wolf is no companion for her, the idea seems slightly less appalling then it once did.
"Jon," she greets sweetly.
"They are about to play for the last dance of the night, would you care to share it with me?" Jon asks her, his own cheeks red despite the cold.
"Of course Lord Jon," she replies, allowing him to lead her away.
With a smile I leave the feast. It isn't until I reach my chamber that I remember why Arya is not with me. I frown as I fall into bed.
A few months pass, and while living in the North is nothing like the South, I find I don't mind as much as I imagined I would. Each morning I sit with Arya in her solar to break my fast. She tells me all about her adventures and I tell her of the past eight years of my own life. I tell her about a smith that gave me shelter in a winter storm that lasted for a fortnight. I tell her a slightly embellished and slightly fictitious story of my escape from the Dragon Queen. After, I go on to teach the younger brats of the town to read in groups of five at a time while I watch Arya from the window, teaching the older children how to wield a sword until it is time for the feast at the end of each day. It takes nearly four fortnights before I finally ask her to dance, much to the chagrin of Gendry. We spend the entire night dancing, even though we step on each other's feet.
I grow happy in the North as Arya and I bond over fighting and being outsiders. I help her teach the older children sometimes and sometimes she helps me, but we prefer our own duties. I watch from afar as Myrcella and Jon fall in love and I am, though reluctant, happy for her. I grow close to each of them, Myrcella, Margaery, and even Sansa. On Sansa's bad days Arya and I take her to the hot springs and allow her to swim for hours under our and Myrcella and Margaery's watchful eyes.
When Spring comes and it is warm enough to be outside without a bundle of furs, Arya and I lay out on the grass of the Godswood. We laugh and we make fun, until our voices turn serious when the conversation turns to Jon and Sansa.
"Daenerys has called for him several times, to be an ambassador of the North in the South, but he won't leave us. Sansa needs him and he would never leave her. He spends his nights in her chamber. She says he scares away her nightmares, and he does, though there are whispers of Targaryens and Lannisters when the people speak of it. Once, Jon had to leave and quiet a rising noise of a rebellion from the Karstarks, Sansa screamed through the nights, never quieting. We did all we could but it wasn't until Jon returned and held her and kissed her hair that she lessened her screams." Arya looks thoughtful, her eyes dark and haunted with a wisdom that goes far beyond her years. "I will never forgive Joffrey for what he did to her. They say he's dead now as the bastard had no shortage of enemies."
"May I ask you something?" I ask, knowing now is my only chance to ask what has been burning in my head for so long.
"Don't be stupid Joff, you know you can ask," Arya responds.
"Why did Sansa take so many in? Jaime, Tommen, Myrcella are all Lannisters and Margaery married the bastard king making Loras his good brother. Why would she ask the Dragon Queen to pardon them?" Arya's eyebrows furrow and for a moment I thought that I had gone too far.
"Sansa was beaten and stripped for Robb's victory in the war, simply because she was his sister. Sansa wouldn't do that to anyone else. As a boy, Tommen used to sneak into her room with books and lemon cakes and other little gifts. He would tell her how he wished to save her, take her away from King's Landing and Joffrey. Myrcella was a good girl, nice to Sansa when few others were and she was innocent in everything that happened so Sansa protected her the way no one else did when she needed it. Jaime is the one that took her away from King's Landing. Margaery was kind to Sansa as well, tried to get her out of King's Landing and to Highgarden to marry Loras. Sansa knew it was because the Tyrells wanted the key to the North, but still their kindness was not lost on her. I think they should have been killed with the rest of them, but they care for Sansa and Sansa needs that."
"And who cares for you?" I ask, feeling especially bold today. If only she knew who I am, she would scream for an eternity before I cut her throat to silence her. I find the thought slightly grotesque, and suddenly I realize I am no longer indifferent to their deaths. I care about them all.
Many years pass and much changes in those years. Arya and I grow fond of each other. Then our fondness goes on to love, much to Sansa's delight and Jon's pained happiness. My thoughts of using her to gain the South drift away and instead I imagine her as a mother to our children, who would be magnificent. I ask for her hand three years after our second meeting and she says yes.
We are to be married four fortnights later.
I smile widely as I watch my bride come down the center aisle on her brother's arm. She's dressed in ivory, looking more beautiful then I've ever seen her. Her hair is swept back in a typical northern style and her dress is far simpler then I have ever witnessed on a bride, but it is perfect, so very Arya.
When she arrives in front of the Heart Tree, Jon passes her to me, his eyes wet from unshed tears. I imagine he's thinking he's losing another member of his dwindling family. I hope he realizes I have no desire to take her from him, much to my own surprise. He kisses Arya's forehead possessively, his last time on her head as a Stark, before taking his place between Sansa and Myrcella. Together Arya and I turn to the Godswood, ready to begin our combined ceremony of both old gods and new. I open my mouth to recite my vow when a voice breaks through the silence.
"Stop!"
Everyone turns to look at the voice. I feel the fear grow within me when I see my brother standing in the crowd, just to the left of Sansa. His eyes are cold and unapologetic even as I beg him silently to let this go. He has kept silent for years, I almost believed he would never say.
"I must speak the truth. I have kept silent to long. Your Grace, Lady Arya, this man is my bastard brother, Joffrey Waters, the one who started the War of the Five Kings and ordered the death of Lord Eddard Stark." His voice is loud and all encompassing on the silent Godswood. It is Sansa who breaks that silence.
"Joffrey." It is said as a declarative, a statement, but all can hear the bewilderment and disbelief.
"Joff?" Arya asks as everyone breaks out in whispers and yells. She steps back from me, the blue roses in her hand falling to the ground. Her eyes are wide and wet and fearful.
"Arya…" she tries to step back but I reach up and grab her around the back of her neck, my palm cradling her cheek. I can hear the screech of metal being pulled from leather but I don't pay those around me any mind. Arya catches my wrist in her hand but it does nothing as I pull her towards me, pressing our foreheads together. "Arya, look at me, I love you. I have changed…"
"You…" she hisses, tears streaming down her cheeks but her eyes are narrowed and forbidding. She throws me back with a hard shove to my chest. "You killed my father! You killed him you monster!" she screams as Jon runs towards her, wrapping his arm around her waist, his other hand wrapped tightly around a sword. "Kill him!" she screams, "Kill him!"
"Arya…" I beg, but it is of no use as Ser Loras and Gendry take me by my arms and pull me away. Around me the world has fallen apart. I see Margaery and Myrcella attempting to quiet a screeching Sansa with Uncle Jaime and Brienne standing tall with their swords out towards me. All men with a sword has it out, as if one were not enough. Lords and Ladies from Northern Houses are yelling and screaming for me to be skinned and executed. My Uncle Tyrion, Lord of Casterly Rock and the representative for the South at our wedding, is yelling for me not to be killed before a proper trial. It is only Arya I see though, screaming profanity at me from the strong arms of her brother. She screams for someone to kill me.
Suddenly I don't care who can see me cry.
A few days pass before anyone comes to see me. I am surprised when it is Queen Sansa herself, unaccompanied. Her eyes are emotionless, no love or insanity to them this day, one of her rare days of clarity. She stands in the doorway of my cell for what seems like a long hour, but is barely a moment at all.
"Joffrey," she greets, if that is what it is.
"Sansa," I reply. The slap comes before I can even register the movement of her hand. It hurts, but it is nothing compared to what I've had done to her.
"I am a Queen now," she says simply, no emotion in her voice.
"Your Grace," I correct.
"Why do you want to marry Arya?" she asks me.
"I love her," I tell her. I see the slap coming this time but I do nothing to stop it.
"Liar," she says.
"I tell you the truth. I have changed Your Grace. I care for her." I look up at her through my long blond locks. I wonder if this is a look my Uncle Jaime gave her brother once.
"You promised mercy for my father," she tells me, her voice dark and deadly, "shall I promise you the same?"
"Your Grace, I am no fool despite it all. I know what it is your people want done of me. It would be a mercy to chop my head," I reply.
"I have not passed a sentence for you. I can pardon you for your crimes, have you nothing to say? No plea for mercy? No word for your life?" she asks me, her eyes narrowed and angry.
"I would not mock you with such stupidity. I must suffer for my crimes, for what I've done to you and yours," I tell her, my eyes never leaving hers.
She says nothing, gathering her skirts in her hands before turning for the door. Just as she is about to leave, I say one last thing:
"I do regret it Sansa, all of it. You loved me and I cast you away and had you beaten and humiliated for no reason of reality. You would have been a wonderful wife to me and I can never be sorry enough that I did this to you. I do love Arya, and I never meant to hurt her."
She doesn't look back, but I know my words affect her, even as my cell door swings shut.
Two moons pass before someone does more then throw me bread. It's dark and cold and even so far bellow, I can hear the screams from above. They haunt me. I want to press my hands against my ears but I don't let myself. I did this to Sansa, I deserve to hear her scream.
The door creaks and I expect to see Jon or Gendry or Tommen or any Northman ready to see me die for the horror I put their Queen through. I'm surprised to see Arya instead. Her long hair is down around her face and she's dressed in a white cotton nightshift and a fur cloak. Her eyes look haunted but her face is dark and determined.
"Joff," she whispers, glancing over her shoulder as if someone had followed her.
"Arya, I—"
"Shut up," she cuts me off, pressing her hand to my mouth. "Unless you want me found and accused of trying to release you, you will stay silent."
I nod to her and she peels back her hand. It curls into the leathers of my tunic, pulling harshly as she brings our faces closer.
"You are evil," she accuses angrily, flames dancing behind her Stark eyes, "You made me love you and for what? To kill my sister and steal her crown by marrying her heir?"
"Arya, no…"
"Shut up!" she whisper-yells, "Do you delight in hearing her scream?" She shakes me violently but I say nothing, knowing she doesn't require an answer. "What you've done to my family… it's inexcusable. Sansa cannot even remember her name most nights and she'd gotten better until this. You are evil and I should allow the small council to have you pulled apart and fed to the direwolves," her glare falters and her fingers loosen, "but you've cursed me with loving you." She doesn't look up, instead fixating her gaze on the clasp at the neck of my tunic. "I will release you and if you know what is good, you will run for the wall and never look back. I know Sansa will not send men to follow you. She is tired and while Jon will want to run his sword through you, he will not leave her side to find you if you go to the wall. Understand that Sansa will not tell her men not to kill you of their own accord, but it is the only chance you have." She doesn't say anything more as she unlocks my chains. With one pull of a string she removes her fur lined cloak and throws it at me.
"Arya…" I start but she cuts me off again, not looking at me.
"Shut up!" she hisses, glancing over her shoulder. As she turns to leave, I hear her whisper once last thing before disappearing into the darkness, "Don't die."
"I love you," I reply to the nothingness.
I run to the Wall in the night. I take a new name but they all know who I am. I dream of her every night. Many try to kill me but I dodge them all, in the hope that one day my would be wife will come and ask me to accompany her home to Winterfell. It isn't until the word that Princess Arya has married Lord Gendry arrives to The Wall that I give up.
They find my body hanging from the rafters the next morning.
A/n I wanted to make this as believable as possible, though Joff is still to OC for my taste. This is just such an OC situation. Review please.