Joffrey I.

Northerns weren't well known for throwing outlandish celebrations. They were hardworking, solemn, stern individuals with a simple outlook on life. Joffrey thought they were all rather dull and uninteresting. The feast being held at Winterfell paled drastically when compared to the tournaments held at King's Landing. The accommodations were modest, the music simple, the food though passable was lacking in refinement and presentation. Overall, the North seemed to lack all the usual pomp and circumstance of which he was accustomed.

The young Prince was seated at a table on the dais overlooking the great hall. From his position, he surveyed the tables below immediately picking out several familiar faces amongst the crowd. His father was making a drunken fool of himself again. After two casks of strong wine had loosened his lips and hardened his dick, he was reaching for anything with tits. Two of the Stark's household maids were seated on each knee, laughing gaily, while the King kissed and groped and buried his face into their voluptuous bosoms.

Joffrey was so used to such displays from his father that he barely batted an eye. Though something always coiled inside him whenever he caught the cool glare of death from his mother that often accompanied his father's antics. Cersei was glaring at King Robert now—Not that it would make any difference since the King was too drunk to notice.

Joffrey had grown rather annoyed at both his parents. Sure, his father was a drunken fool, however, his mother was no better with her love of Dornish Red. Both fools, both drunks, both too caught up with their own petty quarrels to rule the Seven kingdoms with any modicum of skill. They were useless. He couldn't wait until they were out of his way—Especially his father. The sooner the fat oaf died, the better. Then as soon as he was crowned King, he'd have his mother sent back to Casterly Rock to stop her from meddling.

The last thing he needed was a woman telling him what he can and cannot do. He wasn't Tommen. He wasn't weak like he was. He wouldn't bend over backward to accommodate his mother's wishes. When he was King, he'd do as he liked whenever he liked it and no one would be able to tell him otherwise.

It was a lesson that he'd be teaching his new betrothed as soon as they were back to King's Landing.

The prince's eyes fell on the girl in question. She had started the evening sitting with her family on the dais, but after the dancing had started she'd gotten up and taken a few turns with each her brothers, even the bastard, pulling him out of whatever conclave he had been hiding in. She was dancing with her brother, Robb, now and as she danced every so often her eyes met his after a spin and she'd smile. It was unclear whether she was smiling at him or if she was just simply smiling for her eyes never lingered on him. That was odd. Most girls lingered when they looked at him, their gaze feeling like a physical caress.

But Sansa…

Sansa's gaze was, at most, nothing more than a fleeting interest, as if she was merely taking an account of who was still in the room. There was a calculated look about her, he realized, something in her eyes that made every step, every smile, every look, feel deliberate and so unlike all the other girls he had met before. It reminded him of his mother, although there was something colder about it, apathetic almost, whereas his mother's eyes burned with a quiet, passionate rage.

She was a beauty, though, there was no denying that. While her eyes never lingered, his certainly did trailing over her lithe, graceful figure with a hedonistic hunger. Her dancing enticed him, the way she moved so nimbly, so self-assured as if she was gliding on air drew his eyes to the subtle developing curves of her hips and breasts. And when she spun, the skirt of her blue dress twirled outwards with her flashing the pale skin of her ankles to his eyes. It was like milk or freshly fallen snow, and Joffrey briefly imagined himself drawing up her skirts and exposing more of the pale skin to his viewing pleasure.

The song came to an end and with it, the dancers slowed and came to a stop as well. Sansa curtsied toward her dancing partner and laughed at something her older brother had said. Then as if she felt his eyes on her, Sansa's looked up toward the dais and met Joffrey's hungry gaze. She didn't blush and shy away like most girls would've done, like he had seen other girls do, instead she turned and strode towards him, climbing the steps to the dais and sitting close to him with a laugh.

"Whoa, I think I need to sit down for a minute and catch my breath," she said. "I've been dancing too much." She turned to him and smiled in a friendly manner, tossing a thin auburn braid over her shoulder as she addressed him. "Are you enjoying the feast, Prince Joffrey?"

"Somewhat, my lady, more so now that you're here." He replied with a lazy, boyish grin that often caused the young ladies at court to swoon.

Sansa merely nodded and grinned back. "I'm glad to hear it! I suppose this feast is quite lackluster when compared to those that take place in the capital, I worried that you may have been bored sitting up here by yourself."

He had been. Although it would've reflected badly on him to say it, so Joffrey kept his mouth shut for fear of reprimand from either of his parents. He wasn't allowed to be rude to his betrothed and since he was prince he had to adhere to what King Robert wanted by courting the girl. "How can one be bored when you're in the room? I was watching you dance," he said.

"I noticed," she tilted her head in question. "Did you enjoy the performance?"

"Very much so. You're a good dancer," he said because she was.

"Thank you," she preened under the praise, "I've had a lot of practice."

"I can tell."

"So what do you like to do for fun, Prince Joffrey? Any hobbies?" She asked.

"I don't have a lot of time for hobbies," he told her. Between his lessons on politics and history and his training with the Red Keep's master at arms in preparation for his rise to power, he didn't get to enjoy a lot of free time throughout the day.

"That's a shame," she said, looking rather let down by his statement. But she seemed overall undeterred from the conversation as her eye caught something on his person. "Is that a dagger strapped there to your belt? It's got an interesting handle..."

"Oh, this?" Joffrey placed his hand over the blade in question, wrapping his fingers around the curved, white handle of the weapon. Sansa nodded, her eyes light with something that looked like a genuine interest.

"It looks like a beautiful weapon," she said. "Do you mind if I—Can I look at it closer?"

The request was rather unusual for a girl to make as Joffrey had never met a girl that had taken any interest in daggers or swords before, but he saw no harm in it and unsheathed it holding it up to the girl. "Sure."

Joffrey watched the girl study the dagger. It had been a present from his father on his last name day and as such it was a beautifully crafted and ornamented weapon befitting a King or his son. Joffrey would've been impressed by the extravagant gift from the king and even swayed into liking the fat oaf a bit if he hadn't been aware that the dagger was nothing more than a cast-off from the spoils of King Robert's tournament bets. It was won by the King after betting against his uncle, Ser Jamie, in a joust with Ser Loras Tyrell and has remained the only time the Kingslayer was forcefully dismounted from his steed. He told Sansa this, although he rephrased it to make himself look grateful, his father generous, and Ser Jamie a fool.

Sansa's eyes lingered on the glittering steel blade, the ivory bone handle, the elaborate steel engravings on the hummel. She outstretched a hand as if to caresses the sharp edge, then stopped looking at him for permission. "May I?"

"Here," Joffrey handed her the weapon and watched as Sansa's pale fingers wrapped around it gently, tentatively, as if she was unsure of what to do with it. She held it up toward the candlelight, studying the curved blade with her eyes, before trailing her fingertips down the center of the curved metal.

"This is Valyrian steel, isn't it?" She asked surprising him.

"How did you know?" He wondered.

"It's lighter than other daggers I've held in spite of the rather large size," she traced a finger along its sharp edge. "And they say nothing is sharper than Valyrian steel. My father has a Valyrian sword called Ice, and I've seen it cut through wood as if it were butter. What's the handle made out of? Bone?"

"Dragon bone," he told her.

She looked impressed and tightened her grip on the handle, admiring the blade. "It's a very handsome blade," she said handing it back to him. Joffrey got the sense that she wasn't merely talking about the dagger and it made something swell in his chest.

Perhaps it was because of that feeling that Joffrey fumbled when slipping the dagger back into its scabbard. Perhaps it was the intense way her eyes looked at him, piercing through his usual charming eloquence and rendering him without a single thing to say. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair she could look at him like that.

"I heard that there are dragon skulls in the Red Keep, is that true?" She asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Uh, yes," his eyes traced the seam of her lips. She had quite a pretty mouth, full pouting lips tinted with a natural rosy hue, and the way it moved as she spoke had him distracted.

Gods, she's pretty. But it was more than just simply being pretty. He had seen many pretty girls in the capital, where there it seemed that there was no end of them, flocking to court and preening around his father as they were a bunch of exotic birds. Some of them had been even prettier than Sansa, he was sure, however, at that moment he was unable to recall any of their faces. Joffrey couldn't pinpoint what exactly made the Stark girl different, but there was something there, something he hadn't ever encountered before that left him feeling out of his element.

"Have you seen them? I heard that the biggest is the size of a carriage…"

"It is."

"What's it like standing next to that and seeing it every day? " she asked.

"Well, I don't actually see it every day," Joffrey said. "My father had the skulls removed from the throne room after he became King. "

"Oh…" Her expression fell slightly and she nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. No one really wants to remember the Targaryens or their dragons. I personally believe that that's a bit of an oversight. Of all the Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, the Targaryens have some of the best stories and songs are written about them. I know they committed horrible atrocities at the end, but they singlehandedly reshaped the course of history. Sometimes severity is the price we pay for greatness."

"I couldn't agree more…" Joffrey looked at Sansa again—really looked at her. Her eyes were impossibly blue, as deep and fathomless as the ocean, and for a moment he felt as if he was drowning in them as the air left his lungs.

Then the moment was broken when a chunk of something brown, small, and possibly edible bounced off of Sansa's cheek. They both froze, Sansa's eyes fell closed and when they did something cold and icy passed over her face before she turned her away to look across the table. Joffrey followed her line of sight and saw the other Stark daughter, the ugly boyish one, with her spoon raised in the act of launching another spoonful of cooked sausage at her sister.

"Arya," Sansa addressed her sister, smiling. It was a different kind of smile than before, Joffrey realized, something sharp and dangerous. "It seems you missed your mouth," she wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her dress. "Sausage is easier to eat when you use a fork instead of a spoon—"

Arya opened her mouth to speak; but before she could get out even a word, Robb appeared, lifting her squirming body up from the bench. "Alright," he said, "time for bed."

"But I'm not tired," she complained.

"Too bad," he said and nudged the younger girl forward away from Sansa. It was clear that the cretan was being removed from the feast before she could make any more of a scene. Myrcella would've never dared to behave in such a manner, and yet Sansa seemed rather resigned to the behavior as if it wasn't worth her time to address it.

Sansa rolled her eyes and laughed. "Sisters, you can't live with them," she joked.

"Does that normally happen?"

"Sometimes. Arya and I don't get along much," she said matter-of-factly. "But don't worry, I'll get her back. I always get her back." There was something ominous about the way she said the last part, but before Joffrey was able to address it she began asking him about his travels from King's Landing.

"What was the best place you visited on your way here and what was the worst?"

The answer came easily to him. "The Neck was the worst. Too much rain and mud, we were delayed a full five days because of it," he told her. "I haven't decided on the best."

"What do you think of Winterfell so far?"

"Umm…" He hesitated.

"It's rather boring at first glance, isn't it?" She said sympathetically.

"That's not the word I'd use, my lady."

"No, go ahead. You can say it," she assured him. "This place is dull when compared to the capital. Nothing interesting ever really happens here. The Red Keep is probably a lot more exciting."

"Yeah, a bit," he laughed. Joffrey found himself telling her some various gossip that happened around the Red Keep. Things that would've made a more demure girl blush as a lot of it had to do with the affairs of the noble Lords and Ladies, and the salacious acts they got up to when they thought no one was watching. "In the Red Keep, someone is always watching," he told her.

Sansa asked him what he liked best about living in the capital and what he liked least. Joffrey told her about the tournaments that were often hosted by the King and how he wanted to ride in a jousting tournament. "Why don't you?" She wondered.

"My mother says that jousts are no place for a prince," he said.

"Well, that's not true," she frowned. "Prince Rheagar jousted all the time according to accounts. So did your father when he was your age. If it's something you want to do you should do it, forget what your mother says."

"Maybe." Her answer was one that he liked. "If I won a tourney, would you want me to crown you the Queen of love and beauty?"

"If that's what you wanted," she said, "I wouldn't turn it down." There was a glimmer in her eye, a teasing smile on her lips that he couldn't help but return. The boy moved closer to her so that his leg brushed up against hers.

"I hear that you might be coming to King's Landing when we leave Winterfell," he whispered in her ear.

Sansa grinned. "I hear the same. What are your thoughts on that, my prince? Are you in favor or are you opposed?"

He thought about it. Joffrey imagined Sansa and him walking through the gardens of the Red Keep, him dressed his fine doublets and her in the silk summer dresses of the other courtiers, and they'd be talking as they were now while the sunshine made Sansa's hair glow like burning flames. It was a pretty picture, one that the prince quite fancied. When he had first heard about the betrothal, Joffrey had been less than thrilled, downright belligerent, until King Robert had backhanded him so hard it made his ears ring. He thought that there was no way that he would like some demure Northern girl, even if she was said to be particularly beautiful and intelligent, and he told himself that she was going to be boring. Then he met her…

And she wasn't boring. In fact, she was anything but. From the first moment she walked into the feast, she was the one thing that had his undivided attention. And now… Well, now Joffrey was curious and he wanted to know more about her.

"I think," he began brushing a braid behind Sansa's ear, "I think it'd be nice to have you return to the Red Keep with me, my lady. I could show you around. I could show you the dragon skulls if you'd like?"

"Oh, would you? I'd like that a lot, Prince Joffrey—"

"Joffrey," he said. "You can simply call me Joffrey, my lady."

Sansa nodded enthusiastically and chirped, "Alright, then you're welcome to call me Sansa, Joffrey. I hope we can be friends from here on out."

"Of course, Sansa." Her name fell from his lips like a purr and it seemed to have some effect on the girl as, for a moment, she looked flustered while her gaze fell to his mouth and heat rose to her cheeks. It was rather alluring and Joffrey leaned in closer as if to kiss her cheek before she stopped him.

"I seem to remember," she said, raising her brows, "that you wanted me to save you a dance?"

"I did." He stopped his pursuit and looked around the hall at the dancers. "Do you want to dance, my lady?"

"I always want to dance," she said.

"You're not still tired?" He asked.

"Not at all. I'm getting my second wind," Sansa laughed and took his hand in her, standing from the table. Joffrey let her, his eyes sparkling with fascination while Sansa smirked back at him. "C'mon, Joff. Try to keep up, if you can."

Her words were a challenge and it sparked something in him, something carnal. Yes, he thought, finally someone interesting.

Author's Note:

This is the first third-person POV chapter of many to follow and I decided to start off with the complicated characters first. It was a rather tricky chapter to write as writing Joffrey is rather difficult. I wasn't quite sure how I wanted to characterize him and it took me some time to figure it out. This version of Joffrey is not exactly canon, but I'd say he's a bit more like Ramsay Bolton (especially in later chapters I have outlined) than the foolish, sadistic King he was in the show/books. I made him a bit more intelligent and a little (a lot) more sadistic in this fic as I've decided I'll be combining the Ramsay and Joffrey storylines together. This chapter is just a taste of what's to come.