The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with light and warmth, a defiant island of merriment against the darkness of the northern night. Hundreds of tallow candles and blazing hearths pushed back the shadows, their light glinting off polished wood and ancient stone. The welcoming feast to honor the king's arrival had drawn every soul in Winterfell, from the highest lord to the lowliest stable boy.
Upon the high dais sat Lord Eddard Stark and his lady wife alongside their royal guests. Though King Robert's massive frame threatened to overwhelm his chair, his booming laughter rolled across the hall like summer thunder. Beside him, Queen Cersei maintained a courteous smile that never quite reached her emerald eyes.
The princes and princesses of the realm were seated with the Stark children in positions of honor below the high table. Sansa, her auburn hair gleaming copper in the firelight, sat primly beside the Crown Prince. Arya, looking uncomfortable in her formal attire, had been tasked with entertaining Prince Tommen. Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, attended Princess Myrcella with studied courtesy, while young Bran divided his attention between his three-year-old brother Rickon and the exciting tales being told at nearby tables.
As for Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, Lady Catelyn had been unwilling to seat him where his presence might affront their royal visitors. He had been relegated to the far end of the hall among the squires and young men-at-arms, where the bench was harder and the wine more watered.
"Ned!" King Robert called out, his voice carrying easily over the din of conversation and music. "What say you? Was my entrance today not magnificent enough to impress even your dour northmen? By the gods, I haven't enjoyed myself so thoroughly in years! 'King's Landing' my son calls it—a splendid name for a splendid tune!"
Hearing Robert use the familiar name from their youth, Eddard offered a smile that did not entirely mask the concern in his grey eyes.
Their private conversation in the crypts below Winterfell earlier that day had left Lord Stark troubled. The responsibilities that came with being Hand of the King weighed heavily upon his thoughts—to issue proclamations in the king's name, exercise royal authority, command the armies of the realm, and dispense the king's justice. In the absence of the monarch, the Hand would even sit upon the Iron Throne itself, ruling in all but name.
By comparison, Eddard found far more comfort in his title as Lord of Winterfell. Here, among the ancient stones of his ancestors, his duties were clear and his purpose unambiguous.
Yet how could he refuse the plea of a brother-in-arms, a man he had fought beside to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty? More than that, it was a royal command—one does not simply decline the king.
And then there was Robert's suggestion that Sansa and Prince Joffrey be betrothed...
Eddard's worry deepened with every passing moment.
Joffrey observed Lord and Lady Stark with careful attention, his mind calculating the political implications of every word and glance.
The success or failure of this journey to Winterfell held critical importance for his future plans. The path forward depended greatly on where House Stark would stand in the coming conflicts.
Thus far, events appeared to be developing favorably. Eddard Stark had not outright refused the appointment as Hand, which Joffrey counted as success. When a man of Stark's character hesitated, the battle was half-won; some forms of hesitation leaned toward refusal, but others—like Lord Stark's—were merely the prelude to reluctant acceptance.
His attention shifted to the next generation of Starks. If he could win the loyalty of even a few of these wolf pups, the North might become a stable ally within a few years.
Joffrey studied the Stark children gathered around him.
Robb maintained proper decorum with every gesture, shouldering the weight of his future lordship even now. Wild little Arya could scarcely remain seated, her energy barely contained by the formal setting. Bran divided his attention between the knights' tales and his youngest brother, while occasionally glancing toward the high table with barely disguised awe.
Then there was Sansa, whose Tully-blue eyes darted away whenever they met his, her every thought and emotion transparent upon her face.
Joffrey gave his golden hair an artful toss, allowing the warm light from the hearth to illuminate his features to their best advantage.
"Lady Sansa," he said, his voice pitched to carry no further than her ears, "the hall grows overwarm. I find myself curious about this ancient castle and its storied history. Would you care to accompany me on a brief tour of the grounds?"
Sansa hardly considered the implications of his request before answering, "I would be honored, my prince."
In her mind, the stories of gallant princes and beautiful maidens were suddenly incarnate before her.
Joffrey rose with practiced grace, helping Sansa to her feet with solicitous care. They made their way along the crowded aisle toward the great oaken doors at the hall's end.
Many eyes followed their progress from the edges of the high table. Lord Eddard's lips pressed into a thin line of concern, but he made no move to interfere. The other adults exchanged knowing glances and indulgent smiles, recalling their own youthful dalliances.
At the far end of the hall, Jon Snow watched the Crown Prince lead Sansa toward the doors, his mind turning over their brief conversation from earlier that day.
Just as the pair was about to cross the threshold, Jon caught the prince's words floating back to him:
"There is a place for you in King's Landing."
The simple phrase echoed in Jon's mind, recalling their unexpected encounter that afternoon. King's Landing... could he truly go south instead of north? Were most men of the Night's Watch truly criminals and outcasts? What possible role could he play in the capital?
His uncle's elbow gently nudged his ribs, breaking his reverie.
"Jon," Benjen Stark said, "you're a thousand leagues away. What thoughts trouble you so?"
Jon hesitated. He had resolved to inform his uncle of his decision to join the Night's Watch, but now uncertainty clouded his purpose.
"Nothing of consequence, Uncle," he finally replied.
Ghost stirred beneath the table, gently mouthing Jon's hand in silent communion. Jon absently stroked the direwolf's thick white fur, his appetite forgotten as his thoughts raced toward unfamiliar horizons.
Beyond the Great Hall, Winterfell lay wrapped in stillness, as though the ancient stronghold had exhaled its warmth into the night.
The wooden door seemed to separate two worlds entirely—within, the feast continued in all its riotous glory; without, cold solitude reigned supreme.
What a dark and lonely place, Sansa thought with a small shiver.
She exhaled a breath that bloomed white in the frigid air before dissipating like smoke.
Joffrey, noticing her discomfort, untied his fur-lined wool cloak with considerate grace and draped it over her shoulders.
The golden cloak emblazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon settled atop her own garment bearing the direwolf of House Stark—an image strikingly reminiscent of the solemn cloak exchange during wedding ceremonies.
Sansa found herself intoxicated by both the warmth and the symbolism of the gesture.
The moment seemed perfect. Joffrey drew her close, and they huddled together against the northern chill, finding warmth in shared proximity.
Time slipped away unmeasured until Sansa, suddenly shy of their closeness, regained her composure.
"Joffrey," she murmured, her voice barely audible. She made a half-hearted attempt to create distance between them, though she feared the prince might misinterpret her reluctance.
"Perhaps we should return to the hall. It's so dark beyond the torchlight... I can scarcely see my hand before my face."
Joffrey had no desire to return to the oppressive formality of the banquet.
He retrieved a torch from a nearby sconce, its flame dancing in the night breeze. With his free arm, he encircled Sansa's waist, drawing her close once more.
"Have no fear," he assured her, his voice as smooth as summer honey. "While I stand beside you, neither ghost nor goblin shall approach. With no prying eyes to judge, we might speak frankly of matters close to the heart."
He could honestly profess genuine affection for Sansa.
How could he not be captivated by this beautiful girl, so pure and innocent, who brought the mighty House Stark as her dowry? Who could doubt the sincerity of his regard?
They walked slowly through the darkened courtyard, their footsteps leaving paired impressions in the thin layer of fresh snow.
The torch crackled and spat, illuminating only the small sphere of existence around them. Beyond its reach lay impenetrable darkness, as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
In the profound silence of the winter night, each became acutely aware of the other's presence.
Sansa experienced a strange sensation—as though the universe had contracted to this single moment, this slender circle of light containing only two souls drawn together by deepest affection. She found herself wishing the path might stretch onward forever.
They paused in a sheltered corner where the castle walls broke the force of the wind.
The delicate fragrance of Sansa's auburn hair—scented with lavender and rosemary—filled the space between them.
Joffrey gazed into her eyes with practiced intensity, his expression one of profound admiration.
"Sansa," he began, his voice pitched low for her ears alone, "when first I beheld you, I thought I had glimpsed a vision from the songs—a beautiful and noble princess too fine to be hidden away in the North. You deserve to be queen of all the Seven Kingdoms, allowing the entire realm to marvel at your grace."
Sansa's cheeks flushed pink as summer roses, her eyes shining like pools reflecting starlight. She seemed transported beyond herself, beyond Winterfell, into the realm of legend and song.
Joffrey raised his hand to gently stroke her long hair, his fingers tracing its length with practiced tenderness.
"The gods have blessed us both," he continued. "Our fathers have decided we shall be betrothed. I can express only the deepest joy at this pronouncement."
His voice dropped lower still, intimate as a confession. "Sansa, my queen of love and beauty, will you consent to be my wife when the proper time arrives?"
What maiden raised on tales of chivalry and romance could refuse such an offer?
"Gods be praised," Sansa whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "My prince, of course I will!"
Their eyes locked in mutual fascination, sometimes holding, sometimes darting away in sweet uncertainty.
The distance between them diminished by imperceptible degrees.
Sansa felt the prince's warm breath against her face, sensed the heat radiating from him even in the cold night air.
This cannot be real, she thought. Such things happen only in songs...
The prince's lips met hers, and a shock like summer lightning coursed through Sansa's body, scattering her thoughts like leaves before a gale. Only the sensation remained, sharp and clear amidst the confusion.
Strength fled her limbs entirely, but before she could falter, the prince's arms encircled her, supporting her weight as easily as if she were made of feathers. The embrace deepened, overwhelming her senses entirely.
She tasted him—sweet as summerwine, warm as freshly baked bread, alive with vitality. There was fire in his kiss, the strength of steel, and some mysterious essence that threatened to consume her utterly.
It was a sensation beyond anything she had dared imagine in her most secret dreams.
This is no dream, she realized through the haze of emotion. This moment existed in truth, in the world of flesh and breath rather than fantasy.
Pure joy flooded her heart, washing away all doubt and hesitation.
Gods be good, she prayed silently. Let this moment endure forever.
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