“Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon […] Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.” - Jon I, AGoT
I’m back from the dead! A quick doodle to celebrate. Commissions are definitely open again :)
Sansa cracked open her door. She wasn’t sure what time it was; it must’ve been around midnight. She couldn’t get to sleep. This was one of the nights where she couldn’t stop thinking about everything, and where it all went wrong. When her father had been imprisoned. No, when her mother had taken the Imp hostage. No, when Bran fell. Before, it had been simply wondrous. All of a sudden, Sansa was to be a queen, traveling to King’s Landing, her father the Hand of the King. She had a perfect prince. Joffrey was a beautiful, young boy. With a light-tan complexion, muscled from his princely training, burning green eyes, gold curls that fell below his jawline. He was courteous, too. So when he ordered her own father’s head to be slain off his shoulders, she was appalled. This wasn’t him. Was it? Over time Sansa had discovered a horrific new personality of his. Her feelings for him slowly ebbed away. Or to put it better, sunk deep into her heart, so far away that she wasn’t sure that she could ever find them again. She quietly padded down the swirling stairs. Sansa wondered about Joffrey. She felt so confused, thinking about him. Surely there must be more to him than this monster? Perhaps there was a reason why he was this way. A reason other that Cersei’s coddling. Maybe…maybe he didn’t understand how wrong it was to behave like that. She doubted it. Perhaps it was because he acted on instinct, and hid himself behind cruelty.
She turned a corner and arrived at her favourite rose garden. She always came there to think amidst the beautiful flowers. Only, this time she wasn’t the only one there. She heard a squeaking.
Sansa listened closer. It wasn’t squeaking…it was whimpering. And shaky, quiet sobs. Coming from a wavy golden head.
Sansa froze in shock. Was that…Joffrey? She quickly hid behind a nearby bush with purple roses blooming from it. Joffrey’s hand was clutching his face, as if trying to claw it off without the rest of him realising. His expression puzzled her. He looked tortured, confused and conflicted. He looked like he understood himself no better than she did. Sansa squinted, trying to get a closer look when Joff stood up suddenly. Sansa held her breath. He probably wouldn’t walk around to look behind her bush, but she didn’t want to imagine it. He collected himself, sniffed, and walked back to the castle. On the way, he picked a bright red rose, vibrant in the moonlight. After he left, Sansa crept out of her hiding place and sat on the same bench that she found him on. She stared up at the bright moon. It was breathtaking. It reminded her of the moon in Winterfell. She wanted to go home, back to her father, mother, sister and brothers. But she couldn’t, because half of them were probably dead and the Queen Regent would never let her go unless her brother gave back the Kinglslayer. And even then Sansa doubted it. She had learnt a lot in the past couple of years. Most importantly, she was beginning to get a grasp on how to survive life in her position. A cheeky tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and dripped down her cheek. She wiped it off instinctively.
I wonder if Father would be proud of me now. But I’ll never know anymore.
Sansa silently cried into the silent night, as Joffrey had done. This was a sad garden, she decided. It made her sad. But it made her think.
When Sansa woke up later that morning, it was quite late. She had stumbled into her room in a daze, fell down on her bed and closed her eyes.
The next time she opened them, her vision focused on a lovely, slightly blurry face. Its eyebrows were furrowed in concern, its mouth puckered in a sad pout. Sansa blinked. She hadn’t ever seen a face like that in her life. Not this face, making this expression. When she was properly conscious, that face gone. Instead there was the usual Joffrey. His nostrils flared, and he looked about to scream. Instead, he quietly said,
“You didn’t come to break fast with me. Why?”
Suddenly Sansa remembered. How could she have forgotten? The king was going to put her head on a spike and visit it to laugh every day with his stupid queen.
“I…Your Grace, I slept late…I couldn’t-”
“Well, you should have slept early then. You should have come!” He was starting to get angrier. Sansa meekly held her tongue, not wanting to trigger his fury.
“HOW DARE YOU DISOBEY?!” he screamed.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Sansa tried.
“I am your king.” Joffrey stated.
‘As you have mentioned countless times before. This isn’t the first time you’ve said so, and my only king is Robb,’ thought Sansa stubbornly. Joff turned and walked out the room. Her handmaids quickly bowed to him and scurried into the room.
“What time of day is it” Sansa asked them.
“It is noon, my lady,” answered one of them meekly.
Joffrey stomped down the staircase, irked.
That stupid wench. I hate all of them. I hate the Tyrell one. I hate the Stark one. I hate all of them. Why do I even have to be around them!
Several seconds passed when Joffrey remembered that it was him who summoned Sansa to break fast with him. And the wolf was probably thinking the same thing. It just frustrated him, truly. Joffrey had been just fine. Not particularly happy, but not this. Why did the simple existence and presence of this girl have to torment him so?
Her father was a traitor. Her brother was his enemy and held captive his own uncle Jaime. Her sister had attacked him. Her mother once kidnapped the Imp. The Starks and Lannisters hated each other. In fact, that was the end of it, Joffrey reassured himself. He hated the Stark, and she hated him back. He was endlessly relieved that she wasn’t his betrothed anymore. He had never wanted it. But at least he was less confused at the beginning. Joffrey had known one thing when his mother told him who he was to wed. And that was that whoever the wench was, he hated her. Now, he hated her, he loved to torture her, he sometimes felt concerned for her, she confused him. And he hated the strange feeling he got that started in his throat and fuzzed down to his stomach, and sometimes the other way round. That made him especially grumpy. He yanked open his solar door and ordered his guards out. He fell down onto his bed, and put his hand to his face. What was wrong him? He checked for a fever. His forehead was cool.
Joffrey shook his head and unsheathed his current sword, tracing the ripples with his fingers. What was he thinking? He was perfectly normal. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just having fun tormenting the wolf. That was all there was to it. Yes. He looked to his bedside table, where he had left the rose. Someone had put it into a vase, recently. It was shrivelled and almost dead, but less then when he had last seen it. Joffrey took the rose because it reminded him of someone. But when he had reached his bedchamber he threw it on his table and glared. The rose needed to be dead and dull. But it was so beautiful alive. And that was why it needed to die. But someone was keeping it alive. Was that a sign? No. Ridiculous! No…
Joffrey scoffed at himself.
Why in all the Seven Kingdoms would he have come across a thought like that in his mind?
He thought for a bit. Then his mind wondered, and he choked.
“I think I’m ill. I’ll need to see a maester. Gods know Pycelle is good for nothing here.” he murmured to himself.
Yay!! Chapter 1…♡ it would mean a lot to me if any of u guys follow my story or read it😊 especially if ur a got fan
Okay, so I came upon a post that claimed Dani’s love for Drogo is a result of the Stockholm syndrome. It’s not and I will show you why the statement is wrong.
First of all, Dani wasn’t Drogo’s hostage. He didn’t abduct her. The marriage was arranged like so many weddings in medieval, just for political/strategical benefits. She would have to marry, there wasn’t another choice for her to survive.
Secondly, yes, she didn’t want to marry a barbaric Dothraki, one was a complete foreigner to her. She was afraid of her wedding night, afraid of what would come to her. She didn’t feel ready. But Drogo was oddly gentle with her, wiping away her tears. She found comfort in that. He treated her properly as a woman deserves to. And in the end, he even gave her a choice. “No?” Her answer was “Yes,” though. She allowed him to beflower her.
Stockholm syndrome? No way. Dani was a lucky girl that received a good husband. Sansa was the unlucky one with her arranged marriage. It was the entire opposite. Sansa wanted to marry him, then realized what an asshole Joffrey is. Dani didn’t want to, but then she was happy with him. They fell in love and as every epic love a tragic end had to follow.
Then he noticed the envelope sitting on the phone table. It was addressed to him, and when he opened it, he found Sansa’s engagement ring - a trilogy, but the middle stone was a blue diamond, to match her eyes - and her wedding and eternity rings.