As he promised, Joffrey Baratheon wed Sansa Stark. Six years later, after a long and terrible winter, Sansa is still trapped in King's Landing.
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And after the flies, more slowly, came the news: Stannis Baratheon, the only remaining bastion against the young king, was dead. The High Septon said: Flies carry death on their wings; it's a bad omen, the one true king is dead. He said it to the masses, and the words detached from his tongue and rolled through the city, down the streets, and crawled across the ground, rotting the ears of the soldiers, the merchants, the whores, the cooks, the servants. And after blackening the ears and hearts of the smallfolk, it spread through the castle like wildfire, inflating everyone with its black smoke, until no one could breathe without swallowing the words of treason.
Hi! I love how honest you are about shipping a problematic ship like Joffrey and Sansa (and also because I am happy to have found a fellow shipper) I don't send this ask to tell you that you have my respects :) Why? Because you know your ship is problematic, but you embrace the dark and have fun with that. And for that I can't help but respect you.
Thank you, I am very pleased to hear such words. Most of the couples in Game of Thrones are problematic, because all I can do is proudly raise the banner and say that they are problematic, but they are my favorite problematic!
Summary: A masked ball is held in honour of Robert's successful hunt. Her mask a fox, the prince's a raven, two animals that were something else danced around each other and the lion sneaks out of the hall with the she-wolf to reunite themselves.
info: this one-shot was created by the inspiring art of @kaisserin thanks again for letting me make a fic out of it. Have a look at the blog and now have fun reading and see you all next time :)
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The sun was already slowly rising on the horizon, bathing the lands, King's Landing, and the Red Keep in a golden glow.
A deep gold, almost too reddish, it seemed to burn brighter than the coins, jewelry, and the Lannister colors.
A color that was reflected in the blue eyes of the redhead.
A color she always associated only with him, not with his mother, not with his uncle, and not with his siblings.
The gold of the setting sun with a hint of red belonged to Joffrey Baratheon.
The young prince and heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms, the young prince to whom she had lost her heart and whom her heart also feared.
Like a bird, she felt that what she knew, her home Winterfell, her stories, dreams, and hopes, were a cage.
Sansa was also suspicious and stopped singing when she saw the violence in the city, the lies and whispered words, even from Cersei, made her feel uncomfortable... a feeling of darkness that also seemed to lie within Joffrey.
Lies made him ugly, but she could see behind the young lion that he was ashamed of the dark stag that ran clumsily through the forest, leaving a trail of destruction and neglect in its wake.
Robert was not as she had imagined him, Cersei was different from what she wanted, and the Hound seemed to be the most honest of them all, but they all belonged to the crown and the throne...and if the crown demanded a masquerade to honor a successful hunt and the full moon, then so be it.
Much to her sister's chagrin, Arya had teamed up with their father and excused herself to go into town to work.
“Sansa, dear, you represent your sister and me. When I'm done with my chores, I'll keep you company in the hall” her father had promised her when he came into her room.
When she looked into his dark eyes, she wanted to hug him, wanted to tell him all about her hopes, but she was no longer in Winterfell, she was a lady, she was Lady Stark and soon to be a Baratheon and a Lannister.
Her light blue dress reminded her of the clear sky after the snow, the skirt flowing lightly like the water from which her mother sprang.
“I won't disappoint you, Father. Thank you for the dress, it's beautiful...and take care of Arya” she added as her hand briefly touched hers and the gray-clad figure was already about to leave. She saw Ned's little smile.
Just a few moons ago, at the beginning of spring, she would have scolded Arya and wished she would stay with her dance teacher and in the smithy, but now she only hoped that Arya wouldn't cause any trouble.
As the door closed behind her, she turned back to the mirror in the room.
She liked what she saw: the dress was a beautiful reminder of her mother and Winterfell, but the mask she had been given was so unlike her.
A fox—she didn't belong to House Florent, but the masquerade ball seemed to be more about animals than houses, a thought that made her smile.
What will Joffrey wear? she immediately thought of a lion or a deer antler, although that would be rather obvious and simple.
A masquerade ball, she had heard from her maid and Septa, was there to deviate from the customs. One should be open and relaxed, have fun behind the façade, be someone else than one usually is.
A thought that Sansa liked very much, and when her maid came in again and let her know that it was time to go, the blue dress almost blurred in the mirror as she made her way toward the throne room.
Even in the stone halls, she could already hear the noise, the music, the murmurs, and the smell of food.
The tension and yet the anticipation gripped her heart when she saw a few guests standing at the door.
High-born ladies, mothers with daughters and noble sons, all dressed up and whose names were being called. I belong here too, from House Stark, she thought to herself when she realized she was alone...if Lady had been at her side, she would have felt more comfortable.
The thought that she had once possessed such a powerful and beautiful being, that her father was the king's hand, and that she had been such a young lady, strengthened the redhead.
As she took the last step and entered the room, she heard her name spoken “Lady Sansa of House Stark, daughter of the King's Hand!” one of the men called out, and the looks and recognition were on her, at least for a moment, as she stepped forward and looked around.
There were already some people walking around in the crowd, jugglers and guards alike, the houses were seated at tables with abundant food, and directly in front of her sat the king and queen, the seat for her father empty, but she would take his place.
“Good evening, my king, queen, what a wonderful idea with the masks” she greeted them both, and saw the broad smile on Robert’s face, wore a deer mask that barely covered his beard.
To her surprise, Cersei had a dragon and an equally dark dress that nevertheless matched the gold of her hair. “Good evening, little dove, a pretty blue...matching the wildness of the fox” the queen said to her, but the look in her green eyes let Sansa know how much dislike lay behind it.
The younger girl merely curtsied and circled the table to take her place, an honor to sit so close to the king and queen, slightly nervous, reached for the goblet of wine. Sansa had not often drunk, but perhaps it would make the queen's gaze less harsh.
It was a sweet Dornish wine that had been diluted with water, a taste she liked, a familiar sweetness but not the heaviness that wine usually had, and she put the goblet down when she flinched as a hand brushed her red hair.
“The blue of the water, as beautiful as your eyes, my lady” she heard the whisper and looked to her right.
Sansa saw the green eyes behind the black raven mask, saw the short blond hair topped with a crown reminiscent of the Baratheon antlers, saw the red shirt with the lion he wore.
Of all those present, he was the first to take notice of her.
Of all those present, Joffrey was the first to look at her and not ignore her...the raven flew around the lone fox.
As the meal began, one course after another was served, the wine flowed and music played in the background, it was above all the little delicacies that delighted the redhead.
Sansa let her gaze wander, even though she had no one to talk to, this only bothered her a little, she could observe and dream, knowing that Joffrey had somehow defended her.
Even though his mother didn't like her and her family, the prince had enough decency to stand up to his mother and father...at least in some moments before the lion regained his pride and the horrible power of words hit the little bird.
At least she was spared that when, after the fourth course, the conversations grew louder and Robert, more slurring and shouting than calm and composed, announced that the dancing was open.
A glance to the side revealed that both mother and son were reaching for their goblets, clearly wishing that the king would show less such unsavory behavior at such an occasion, but Robert was the king and could do as he pleased.
The lords and their ladies, knights with maidens, streamed into the middle, and Sansa, feeling emboldened by the wine, rose and joined the dancers.
The sound of the harp and the singing filled her ears as the scent of flowers surrounded her and the women's dresses swirled around her as she joined the dance alone at first.
She had heard stories from her mother about how Catelyn had danced with Ned, how they had spun around and how he had kissed her that night and she had given him her handkerchief, an image that made the red-haired girl smile. But on the next turn, she suddenly felt two hands on her hips.
Someone was standing behind her, someone taller, whose touch was gentle yet held her in place, the smell of wine and leather emanating from him. “The pretty fox is dancing alone?” a question was whispered to her and she saw the amused look behind the mask.
The prince and the lady found their perfect rhythm among the dancers, but she wasn't interested in the rest.
Blue met green, red hair swirled like a storm through the blonde storm, the young lion danced with the young she-wolf.
The surprise seemed to linger in her eyes, she felt the moisture on her cheeks and ears, “Not when the swift raven is with me,” she replied and placed her hand on his as they came closer while dancing, the spinning came to a slow end and the music transitioned to something calmer.
Her blue eyes looked at Joffrey for a moment.
His clothes had been specially tailored for the occasion, and there was still a hint of childishness in his face, even though it was already clear that he would inherit the beauty of the Lannisters, the same beauty she had inherited from her mother.
She could also sense that he didn't want to let her go, that his grip wasn't loosening. “How would my lady like something a little more amusing?” he asked, and she felt his lips brush her cheek almost deliberately, her heart beating faster as she realized that he wanted to be alone with her.
That she would get away from the hall, from the drunken Robert, from the loneliness without her father, and from the terrible looks of the queen.
That the raven had been flying around her the whole time, that it wouldn't let her go until its black feathers had completely enveloped her and the lion had his she-wolf.
That if she left, she would disappoint her father, violate her duty, be as stubborn as Arya would be if she refused...she was no longer a little child who played with dolls.
She was now a lady, and when she squeezed his hand lightly and said, “Your lady would like this very much, my prince” he immediately pulled her through the dancers, past the revelers and drunks, and out of the hall.
The coolness of the hallway was a welcome change as the heat inside slowly became unbearable, and time had passed so quickly that the moon was already in the sky.
The laughter of the two could be heard as his hand did not leave hers, his green eyes reappearing when he simply threw away his mask and she did the same in her excitement.
“The fox is actually Lady Stark, how interesting” the prince said with a wink, and the prince took her along the stairs and down the hallway.
“The raven is the prince, who would have thought?” she giggled and saw his own smile as he pointed slightly to the lion on his shirt, golden embroidery that identified him as a Lannister.
“A lion” said the heir to the throne, and she felt a hint of seriousness next to him. In the end, Joffrey was still his mother's pride and joy, and the lion would always get what he wanted.
He was no raven that flew away; he was a powerful, handsome animal that did not hide and whose mood changed when he pleased.
Joffreys mood seemed to lighten again when he opened the wooden door of his chamber and they both disappeared inside.
The kiss she received took her by surprise, his hand on her cheek felt warm, she wanted more of it than the kiss came sooner than she ever thought possible when she saw his smile.
Joffrey's pride made her blush as she felt so small again. “Don't be shy when you're with me” he said to her, and his hand gently took hers as he pulled her toward the bed.
She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers doing the same, spurred on by the wine and her love for him, the fire inside her, her heart longing for him.
What did one night under the full moon matter when she was going to marry him anyway?
What was a little blood when she could be united with the prince of her dreams?
The blush on her cheeks lingered as the moon lit up his room and her hair covered her naked upper body.
Sansa saw the prince's enchanted gaze as his hand slipped under her petticoat. “My beautiful queen” he murmured and kissed her hand as the two naked bodies lay before each other, moving toward the bed covered with furs.
She saw his satisfied sigh as she sat on his lap, her hair seeming to surround them both, she dared to kiss his neck, the soft skin like hers, flawless, unexplored, and yet two who loved each other like a lion and a wolf, never wanting to be apart.
As the night wore on, marks appeared on the prince's body, scratches and hickies adorned Joffrey, the body of his beloved was covered in blue marks from his grip, blood and tears adorned the furs and pillows.
Sounds of lust and fear mixed in the wine-dampened minds of both echoed...who could have guessed that behind the masks of the raven and the fox, the prince and the lady were hiding?
That only moons later, Sansa and Joffrey would be reunited, both with Ned Stark's blood on their hands.
Despite everything that had happened in the one night that had bound them together, but that night seemed like a distant dream from which they had both awakened differently.
When the lion ascended the throne and the she-wolf stood alone at the foot of the stairs, she could only look up at him and hope that he remembered the night as she did.
At the night, they had both hidden behind masks...masks that were now little more than a dream of the dance.
How about Robert telling Joffrey about the betrothal to Sansa?
“Now look here,” Father says, which is how he starts almost all of his sentences to Joffrey. He wipes the bacon grease from his fingers, clearing his throat with a great rumble. The stag is the sigil of House Baratheon, but Father more closely resembles a bear than a stag. “Lord Stark has a daughter about your age. Sansa. It’s high time we found you a wife.”
Joffrey can barely contain his disdain. “You want me to marry a Northern girl?”
“I was to marry a Northern girl,” Father reminds him sharply. “Sansa’s aunt, as it so happens. The Starks are good people. They’re an old and noble house, and Lord Stark was like my brother.”
Joffrey considers this, pushing his eggs around on his plate. “What if I don’t like her?”
“That’s too damn bad,” Father rumbles. “Someday you’ll be king. You have to marry someone who’s good for the realm.”
“And you think a Northern girl is good for the realm?”
“The North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, and it may not look it from the road, but it’s the greatest. They can raise more men than any of the other kingdoms. If you find yourself in need of aid, it’ll be the Northmen you want, not these flighty Dornishmen or the Tyrell pansies.”
“Their sigil is a rose.”
“Rose, pansy. What are flowers compared to direwolves?”
He has a point there; the direwolf is certainly more formidable than a rose. “So you think I’m in danger? That I need strong allies to protect me?”
“No king is truly safe on his throne,” Father says, more serious now. “There will always be someone who thinks they have a better claim, or a stronger will to rule. Even now, Viserys Targaryen and his sister are across the Narrow Sea; they’re beggars now, but that may change. They will not have forgotten their father.” His voice softens. “This is what it means to be king. It means you have to do the right thing and marry the right girl even if you don’t love her.”
“Jahaerys married the woman he loved,” Joffrey points out. “And Maegor took whatever wife he wanted.”
“Rhaegar took the woman he wanted,” Father rumbles, and there’s that angry look in his eyes again. “Is that who you want to be like?”
Joffrey lowers his head. “No.”
“Mm, didn’t think so.” Father stands up, swigging down the last of his ale. “You’re to marry the Stark girl, provided her father consents. Start getting used to it.”
Joffrey doesn’t want to marry some illiterate girl from the North, and he spends the rest of the ride to Winterfell sulking about it. He bets she’s ugly, and smells like a sheep.
So when he rides through the gates of Winterfell and sees a pretty girl with shining, coppery hair and a smile that warms the chill from his bones, he pauses. Maybe, just maybe...there’s something to be said about Northern girls.
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Sansa marries Joffrey Baratheon and becomes the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Will the Dove manage to become a Wolf and tame the Young Lion?
My work is on ao3. This fanfiction is available in both Russian and English.
I will be glad to receive feedback, both here and ao3💚🥰
