Warning - This is a fic written to realistically portray two characters (Joffrey and Sansa) who have dealt with abuse in different ways. There will be a bit of nonconsensual sex, and I'm not supporting that. Rather, I'm trying to show the cycle of abuse and its harmful effects on people. There will be moments that are something like romance, but mostly it is a deeply disturbing fic that is dark and focuses on Sansa's mental breakdown (specifically, her Stockholm Syndrome and PTSD) and Joffrey's various ailments (including something akin to Conduct Disorder, not to mention PTSD and sexual sadism). I know psychological drama isn't everyone's bag, but I hope those who read this enjoy it.
Alternate Universe, as Joffrey and Sansa have a sexual relationship. Also gives Joffrey a backstory that's not in canon. Sansa is 15 and Joffrey is 16. Margaery is 18. Other characters are their book ages. Characterization based off the novels. Story based off the HBO series.
Credit for title: Kate Bush, "never be mine".
Rated: Mature. Includes: Dominance/Submission, Stockholm Syndrome (and its effects on an abuse victim's psyche), scenes of sexual abuse (including torture, sexual sadism, and non-graphic references to child abuse), violence (including at least two instances of graphic "M rated" character death), non-graphic references of harm to animals/children, incest, underage characters participating in sex acts, and older characters having sexual/romantic thoughts about underage characters.
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The Thrill
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and
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the Hurting
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Chapter One: Lessons
Prologue
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SANSA
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SANSA STARK used to wish she had never left Winterfell, and before that (so, so long ago) she used to daydream about being anywhere but Winterfell. She'd thought King's Landing sounded like a spectacular, beautiful place with actual lords, ladies, kings, queens and knights, instead of her boring siblings, nagging Mother, and annoyingly protective Father. Sansa would sit in her lessons and dream of her future somewhere bigger and brighter than Winterfell, somewhere she'd be recognized for the perfect lady she knew she was deep down. Sansa's wishes as a young girl were very exact: she wanted a comfortable home, a handsome and gallant husband, and exactly three children (two girls and one boy).
When she turned thirteen, those dreams she focused so heavily on each night while praying to the Gods, those dreams she thought about during sewing with her Septa, those dreams she'd figured could only happen in ages and ages, were going to soon be a reality! Sansa was informed that she may have an impending betrothal and all the more exciting was the fact that her husband-to-be (if all went according to planned) was not simply a knight or a lord. He was Joffrey Baratheon, of the houses Baratheon and Lannister, heir and prince of Westeros! Joffrey's father was Sansa's father's best friend, King Robert, and Sansa just knew in her heart that she would fall in love with Prince Joffrey the moment she saw him. How could she not? She knew he would be handsome, nurturing and kind, just as she'd always hoped her future love would be. When she badgered her parents for information about the prince's looks and his favorite activities and foods, they soon grew unresponsive. Her father finally admitted he did not know much, except he recalled Joffrey had taken after his mother, sporting green eyes and hair of Lannister gold. Sansa knew he'd be beautiful, she just knew. Jon Snow, Father's bastard son, mockingly told her he'd heard from Theon the prince was a cunt who looked like a pretty girl. Infuriated and tearful, Sansa knew right then how different she was from those in her family, and how much she needed to be in King's Landing with Joffrey, her one true love. How soon Sansa's dreams changed.
From the moment Sansa saw Joffrey ride in proudly on his stallion, she knew there was no other way she could live her life but be Joffrey's bride, his future queen. He jumped effortlessly off his horse and smiled straight at Sansa and she felt her heart melt into a puddle inside her chest. He was perfect. She looked excitedly to her little sister Arya for approval but Arya was far more interested in where Joffrey's uncle, the "Imp", had gone. Sansa shushed her sister and focused on the handsome boy before her. Prince Joffrey was tall and straight-backed with gleaming white teeth and gorgeous blond curls that made it look like he was already wearing a crown, or even a halo. His eyes were expressive and his forehead wasn't too large, and he was dressed in the finest Southern garb, a velvet riding coat in Lannister red and well-polished riding boots. Sansa was instantly in love, and she fell even harder when Joffrey protected her from two of his men, a frightening mute by the name of Ser Illyn Payne and his sworn shield, a badly burned and scary man named Clegane who Joffrey coolly referred to as his "Dog". Her heart beat in her chest when Joffrey invited her to ride with him around Winterfell for the purpose of getting to know him. It was the perfect afternoon. They rode their horses (Joff riding so fast Sansa struggled to catch up, he was just too talented at riding), played in the shadow cat caves near the river, feasted on a lovely picnic, and drank more wine than Sansa had ever had in her life. "My betrothed can drink as much as she likes," Joffrey had said in an important voice that made Sansa's heart swell, and he let her drink more and more of the sweet red liquid from his leather pouch. Joffrey was only a few years her senior but he acted in charge, like a real man. She listened to his stories and his sweet singing, and when the light began to disappear behind the clouds she wondered aloud if they should go back to the castle. She'd had far too much wine and felt too dizzy, too daring. Joff hadn't wanted to, and Sansa needed to appeal to her betrothed so she'd agreed. She should have insisted they hurry back. But how could she have known?
They'd heard a strange noise beyond the brambles, and Joffrey wanted to investigate, promising he would take care of her if danger arose. Clinging to his arm, Sansa almost wished there would be danger. That way, her valiant and beautiful prince could save her and it would be just like the ballads. But instead of dragons or ruffians or bears, it was only stupid Arya and her stupid friend Micah. Sansa was instantly embarrassed, especially when Arya spoke to Joff like he was a commoner instead of a future king. Arya was always making Sansa's life a terror, always messing up everything with her willfulness. Joffrey seemed to think that Arya and Micah's stick "sword-fighting" was funny and he'd swaggered right over, his voice loud and bold and his speech slightly slurred. Then suddenly, he was using his own sword, his real sword that he'd named Lion's Tooth, on Micah's cheek. A thin river of blood sprang up and Micah cried out. Sansa's head felt woozy as she watched the scene unfold before her eyes: Arya springing to Micah's defense, Joff swinging his sword at Arya's head and shouting awful, nasty words (Sansa had never imagined her future husband saying such things), and then Nymeria had dove in, ever protective just like Arya herself. Before Sansa could so much as scream, Nymeria had Joff's arm in her great jaws and she was tearing at his skin. There was so much blood, and Sansa yelled at them all to stop, stop, stop. Arya tossed Lion's Tooth into the water and ran off and Nymeria followed. Enraged, confused and scared, Sansa rushed to her poor prince's side, ready to offer support, aid, anything he wanted. But when Prince Joffrey looked up at her, his large green eyes were flashing in a dangerous way. "Don't touch me," he'd spat and Sansa had backed away, tears springing into her eyes as she went for help.
Then, the horrors happened. Prince Joffrey lied to his mother, the Queen, and said that Micah and Arya had attacked him. Sansa feigned ignorance. She did not want to displease Joffrey, and perhaps she'd had too much wine? Perhaps she was remembering events differently? He had a great bandage wrapped round his arm and the Queen said the direwolf who'd scarred him had to die but Nymeria could not be found. Instead, it was decided that Lady would be put to death. The first piece of Sansa broke that day.
In the weeks that followed, Sansa's thoughts were all over. She deeply wanted to marry Joffrey and so she tried to put Lady (and later, Micah, who she learned had been slaughtered by Joffrey's Dog) out of her mind. After all, Lady was Arya's fault. The rift between she and her little sister grew deeper when her father finally decided he would be King Robert's hand and travel to King's Landing. The betrothal was on and Sansa was overjoyed. But Joffrey would not even look upon her anymore. When she caught his eyes, he only sneered. "What did I do?" Sansa wailed to her Septa, to her father, to Arya, but after the first week no one wanted to hear her woes. Queen Cersei was the only person who gave Sansa encouragement. "He's a very sweet boy," the Queen said, "but he's also very moody. I think he was displeased you saw him become injured, and I am certain he was embarrassed he was attacked in front of you by two children so much younger than him. He's very proud. See if you cannot make him happy by telling him how good and brave he is. That is my advice." Sansa did not bother mentioning that Joffrey had not been attacked by anyone except Nymeria, who was only defending her sister. She loved Cersei. The Queen was beautiful and made Sansa feel grown up. At least, that was then.
Sansa began to drop praise on Joffrey whenever she could. She clapped at tourneys when he did. She complimented his grand clothes, his horses, his home. Soon, he was smiling again, and he even gifted her a wonderful pendant and kissed her. His mouth was smooth and firm and he threaded his hands through her hair. Everything was perfect again.
When King Robert tragically died and it was announced Joffrey was being groomed for the crown, Sansa could not be happier. But then Father was in trouble. He'd questioned Joffrey's right to the throne; why would he do that? He was locked away below the castle and Sansa could not believe her bad luck, what was Father doing, why was he spoiling her happiness when everything was supposed to be perfect? She just wanted everyone to get along and celebrate her marriage to her handsome prince. They were going to rule happily and all the townspeople would adore them and they'd have three beautiful blond green-eyed children, two girls and one boy.
That was three months ago, before the newly crowned King Joffrey had blatantly ignored Sansa's urgent plea for her father's pardon and had commanded Father's head be chopped off right there in front of the entire population of King's Landing. Right in front of Sansa's eyes. A large piece of Sansa broke that day, and more chipped away when it was announced Arya had gone missing, and that Sansa now belonged to King's Landing- belonged to King Joffrey as collateral for a potential bargain with Winterfell. When King Joffrey gloatingly showed off Father's head, stinking and rotted on a pike outside the castle gates, Sansa had become numb. Joffrey was no hero, no valiant king. He was a beast.
Yet, losing her maidenhead changed everything. It changed Sansa's way of thinking and she was certain now it had changed Joffrey's. In the night, they were each other's and in the day, sometimes he was a boy and other times he was a cruel creature Sansa could not quite decipher. If Sansa was good, she would get a reward. If she was bad, she'd be punished. She'd learned to savor those happy moments when she pleased Joffrey. If she could figure out how to keep him happy forever, perhaps she would stay alive.
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JOFFREY
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KING JOFFREY BARATHEON was not exactly certain how the predicament with Sansa Stark had begun. He'd meant for it to be a lesson to his mother and now he was worried he might actually have tender feelings for Sansa. Nasty, loving, tender feelings. It had happened slowly but steadily over the course of a few months, and although he was feeling ill about it he couldn't stop. He couldn't stay away from her room. He watched her every move, tongue waggling out like a snake's—hungry. Curious. He was even beginning to look forward to the evenings, to the darkness that ensured they would be together alone, without interruptions. (I've done a bad thing, Mother.) He'd gone against the rules and he'd spoiled Sansa's maidenhead and he'd meant to stop after that but he could not get away from her. He couldn't stop filling Sansa up. Not even now.
Mother started it all, Joffrey decided. She had encouraged him to break the code of conduct, she'd brought it on herself because she doubted him. She started it with the way she pranced about as if it was she who owned the kingdom, like it was she who held the power and esteem in her greedy ivory hands. Joffrey surmised that had Cersei been a good and quiet mother, he'd have left Sansa alone until their impending marriage because there would have been nothing to prove. But Cersei, as much as he loved her (he still did, after all, even now), was a meddling cold-hearted cunt who needed to be bested. Because King Joffrey had the crown and the throne and Mother did not. This was something that needed to be understood by everyone in King's Landing. Especially Cersei.
The initital excitement of having a pretty princess by his side was soiled before it even really started. Joffrey could not stand public humiliation; it turned him defensive and made him scream, drove him into a furious rage that left his siblings crying and his parents grappling for an answer. Joffrey was a boy who wanted to be respected, who lived for praise and pretty words, and when he was seen as anything other than heroic he fell apart like his sister's mutilated dollies. Joffrey fancied Sansa because Sansa was supposed to be his one and only love. She was beautiful, with bright eyes and flowing crimson hair. When they met, she watched him with delight, with worship- just as anyone woman should look upon her future husband. Yes, Sansa looked upon him with adoration but then, all of a sudden, she'd seen him cry. It was not his fault, of course. He'd been mercilessly attacked by two other children and a direwolf had been set on him! He'd been horribly scarred and the pain had been excruciating. She'd seen him erupt in frustration and hot anger. She'd seen him in a fragile moment before he'd even had a chance to kiss her, and for this she needed to be punished.
Joffrey suddenly did not love Sansa Stark. Joffrey detested her with everything he had inside of him.
Why, why, why does she have to come with? Do I really have to marry her? She's ghastly, she's horrible, he shouted at his mother but unlike other tantrums, this one did not change much of anything. Joffrey spent the following days hating Sansa more and more. Certainly, she was good-looking but he hated her voice, absolutely loathed her obnoxious diction and her carefully worded sentences. He hated how she cut her food and how she apologized profusely for every movement she made. He started blocking her out and the only times he cared about what she was saying were the times he caught her muttering under her breath.
Joffrey refused to learn anything about Sansa Stark, even though his mother said this would be a good idea and a privilege she'd never had with his father. Cersei encouraged him to ask her questions: Did she have hobbies? What colours did she prefer? Did she sing or sew or tell stories? She's a stupid girl, Joffrey told his mother hotly, so what else is there to know?
Joffrey wasn't interested in bedding Sansa, not anymore, not at all. Being interested in Sansa would give the power of being desired and Joffrey wasn't willing to give her any of that. There had been some fascination with her body and looks initially. He'd imagined putting himself inside her, wondered if perhaps Sansa would take him in her mouth and whether she'd scream and cry when he did all the things he'd envisioned doing with a woman. Joffrey wanted to put his hands on her neck and pinch her. He wanted to bite her lip and push his fingers inside her, hear her say his name in awe. He wanted to take complete control of Sansa. But now that she was at King's Landing, he couldn't be bothered. He didn't like her excessive, sickening kindness. He didn't respect her family. He didn't like how Eddard Stark had stolen his father's heart and soul, that Father cared for Ned more than Joffrey and especially that he did not hide this fact from anyone. Joffrey absolutely hated Ned Stark, hated the light in Father's eyes when he recalled stories of he and Ned's past together.
Joffrey focused on his regular activities. He perfected his crossbow marksmanship on songbirds, launched pebbles into the stable to watch the horses buck up, tripped maids in the hallways, and broke Tommen's toys. He mocked his Hound's face and dumped wine in Myrcella's lap. He ignored Sansa Stark. When she looked his way, he grimaced. When she tried to smile at him, he sneered.
Mother said, be nice. Mother said, no matter what, she is to be your queen and you must treat her like a queen. I know you are ashamed but there is no need to be. You are strong. You are a handsome, brilliant prince and you'll be a fine ruler. Be a good boy, Joffrey. Be my sweet boy and be courteous to our guest, your future wife. So Joffrey tried to block out the jealous thoughts and do what was right. He even decided to kiss Sansa. If he was going to have to be nice, he wanted to get something out of it. He had to be honest. He liked the feeling of his lips on hers, of his hands on her waist, of complete control. Most of all, he liked the look in her eyes. The look that said, 'you can do anything you want to me because I trust you.' This was an improvement from babying him, from seeing him cry. Joffrey decided, well, it could be worse.
And then, Father died without any warning and Joffrey was suddenly being groomed for the crown. There were bigger issues than his impending marriage with Sansa, like her father trying to steal his title, trying to ruin everything just as he'd ruined Robert. When Sansa knelt before Joffrey and begged for her father's mercy, Joffrey was pleased. Now this was a wife, this was a respectful, dutiful girl. But a girl who thought she had any place to change a king's mind needed to be taught a lesson and so Joffrey had Eddard Stark's head removed from his body ( he'd never forget the sinewy neck being clipped by strong metal, the body twitching slightly, the dark red blood). He liked how Sansa stared, tears rolling down her face, as she realized that he, King Joffrey, was in charge and she was not. At least Sansa was beginning to understand.
The idea of a marriage to her became less terrible. It was something he had to do and so it became a game. Joffrey wanted his future wife to be afraid. He wanted her to respect him and hate him and love him and hide from him all at once. He wanted her to hide from him because he wanted to find her. He wanted to see the fear in her eyes when he pulled her up by her hair and said, Got you. He wanted her to be completely consumed with thoughts of him, while he only took her when he pleased and put her away when he did not wish to see her. He had it all figured out, you see. Sansa had not bled yet, and so Joffrey made completely certain that while she was waiting to wed him, she would learn to respect him as deeply as possible. That way, she would be ready to please him.
He tortured her mercilessly but he also let her know when she looked attractive, because she should never forget how important it was to look pretty for him. That was a rule. He delighted in showing her Ned's disembodied head, traitorous eyes blank and mouth gaping in a forever apology. Joffrey liked the hatred in his bride-to-be's blue eyes, and he matched it with his own shining green stare, his lips grinning in amusement. Fix him with loathing? It was a challenge. And he would win. He was excited, more than he wanted to admit, while watching Ser Arys slap Sansa across the face. Just the thought of it made going to bed with Sansa seem like an easy task.
Joffrey did not know much about lying in bed with women properly but he knew what pleased him when he was alone. Beautiful thoughts of brutal punishments. Images of girls flogged and hog-tied, lying facedown on his canopied bed. Blood-soaked gowns. Large bosoms, long ringlets spread down nude backs, rivulets of plasma dripping out from the corners of their eye sockets. He'd stroke himself rapidly and then sigh in pleasure, letting go on his sheets or stomach while he dreamed about girls he could mutilate, girls nobody would ever miss. Joffrey wasn't his blasted Uncle Imp. He didn't love women like a weak, piteous fool. He hated women. (Hated them just like he hated wailing babies and cats and ugly people and rainy days and the smell of the pigs and unclean clothing and getting hurt and losing his words in the middle of a sentence and he hated women almost as much as he hated admitting defeat. And most of all, he hated that stupid Sansa Stark.)
Oh, but that was then.
